by Clive Barker
Shadwell had been brought up a Catholic; and though he’d long neglected his faith there was no forgetting the rituals he’d learned as a child. He listened to the Sanctus, his lips running with the rhythm of the words, though it was twenty years since he’d attended them. Then the Eucharistic Prayer – something short and sweet, so as not to keep the accountants from their calculations – and on to the Consecration.
… Take this all of you and eat it. This is my body which will be given up for you …
Old words; old rituals. But they still made sound commercial sense.
Talk of Power and Might would always attract an audience. Lords never went out of fashion.
Lost in thought he wasn’t even aware that the mass had ended until the priest appeared at his side.
‘Mr Shadwell?’
He looked up from his calf-skin gloves. The church was empty, but for the two of them.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ said the priest, not waiting for confirmation that he had the right man. ‘You’re most welcome.’
Shadwell got to his feet.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Perhaps you’ll come with me?’ came the response.
Shadwell saw no reason not to comply. The priest led him across the nave, and into a wood-panelled room which smelt like a brothel, sweat and perfume mingled. At the far end of the room, a curtain, which he drew aside, and another door.
Before turning the key he said:
‘You must stay close by me, Mr Shadwell, and not approach the Shrine …’
The Shrine? For the first time since coming here, Shadwell had an inkling of what was going on.
‘I understand,’ he said.
The priest opened the door. There was a steep flight of stone steps before them, lit only by the meagre light shed from the room they were leaving. He lost count of the steps after thirty; they were descending in almost total darkness after the first ten, and he kept his hands stretched to the wall, which was dry and chilly, in order to maintain his balance.
But now below, a light. The priest glanced over his shoulder, his face a pale ball in the murk.
‘Stay by me,’ he cautioned, it’s dangerous.’
At the bottom, the priest took hold of his arm, as though not trusting Shadwell to obey his instructions. They had arrived in the centre of a labyrinth, it seemed; galleries ran off in all directions, twisting and turning unpredictably. In some, candles burned. Others were in darkness.
It was only as the guide led him down one of these corridors that Shadwell realized they were not alone here. The walls were lined with niches, each of which contained a coffin. He shuddered. The dead were on every side; it was their dust that he could taste on his tongue. There was only one person, he knew, who would willingly keep such company.
Even as he formed this thought the priest’s hand dropped from his arm, and the man withdrew down the passageway at some speed, murmuring a prayer as he went. The reason: a veiled figure, dressed from head to foot in black, approaching him down the tunnel, like a mourner who’d lost their way amongst the caskets. She did not have to speak or raise her veil for Shadwell to know that it was Immacolata.
She stood a little way from him, saying nothing. Her breath shook the folds of her veil.
Then she said:
‘Shadwell.’
Her voice was slurred: even laboured.
‘I thought you’d stayed in the Weave,’ he said.
‘I was almost detained there,’ she replied.
‘Detained?’
Behind him, Shadwell heard the priest’s feet on the stairs as he made his exit.
‘Friend of yours?’ he asked.
‘They worship me,’ she told him. ‘Call me Goddess; Mother of the Night. They emasculate themselves in order to better show their adulation.’ Shadwell grimaced. ‘That’s why you’re not allowed in the vicinity of the Shrine. They consider it desecration. If their Goddess hadn’t spoken, they would not have let you this far.’
‘Why’d you put up with them?’
‘They gave me a hiding-place, when I needed one. Somewhere to heal.’
‘Heal what?’
At this, the veil slowly lifted, untouched by Immacolata. The sight beneath was enough to make Shadwell’s gorge rise. Her once exquisite features were wounded beyond recognition, a mass of raw tissue and seeping scars.
‘… how …?’ he managed to say.
‘The Custodian’s husband,’ she replied, her mouth so twisted out of true it was difficult for her to form words properly.
‘He did that?’
‘He came with lions,’ she said. ‘And I was careless.’
Shadwell didn’t want to hear any more.
‘It offends you,’ she said. ‘You’re a man of sensibility.’
This last word was pronounced with the subtlest irony.
‘You can mask it, can’t you?’ he said, thinking of her skills with disguise. If she co ‘d imitate others, why not copy her perfect self?
‘Would you have me a whore?’ she said to him. ‘Painting myself for vanity? No, Shadwell. I’ll wear my wounds. They’re more myself than beauty ever was.’ She made a terrible smile. ‘Don’t you think?’
Despite her defiance, her voice trembled. She was pliable, he sensed; despairing even. Fearing insanity might claim her again.
‘I’ve missed your company,’ he said, attempting to look steadily at her face. ‘We worked well together.’
‘You’ve got new allies now,’ she replied.
‘You heard?’
‘My sisters have been with you now and then.’ The thought did not comfort him. ‘Do you trust Hobart?’
‘He serves his purpose.’
‘Which is?’
‘To find the carpet.’
‘Which he hasn’t done.’
‘No. Not yet.’ He tried to stare straight at her; tried to give her a loving look, ‘I miss you,’ he said, ‘I need your help.’
Her palate made a soft hissing sound, but she didn’t reply.
‘Isn’t that why you brought me here?’ he said, ‘so that we could begin again?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m too weary for that.’
Hungry as he was to walk in the Fugue once again, the thought of picking up the chase where they’d left it – moving from city to city whenever the wind carried a rumour of the Weave – did not enthrall him either.
‘Besides …’ she said, ‘… you’ve changed.’
‘No,’ he protested. ‘I still want the Weave.’
‘But not to sell it,’ she said. ‘To rule it.’
‘Where did you get that notion from?’ he protested, offering an ingenuous smile. He could not read the ruin before him well enough to know whether his pretence worked. ‘We had a pact, Goddess,’ he said. ‘We were going to bring them into the dust.’
‘And you want that still?’
He hesitated, knowing that he risked everything with a lie. She knew him well – she could probably see into his skull if she chose to; he might lose more than her company if she sensed deceit in him. But then, she was changed, wasn’t she? She came before him as spoiled goods. Her beauty, the one ungovernable power she had always had over him, was gone. She was the supplicant here, though she was trying to pretend otherwise. He risked the lie.
‘What I want is what I’ve always wanted,’ he said. ‘Your enemies are my enemies.’
‘Then we’ll lay them low,’ she said. ‘Once and for all.’
Somewhere in the maze of her face a light ignited, and the human dust on the shelves at his side began to dance.
VI
THE BRITTLE MACHINE
1
n the morning of the second of February, Cal found Brendan dead in bed. He had died, the doctor reported, an hour before dawn; simply given up and slipped away in his sleep.
His mental processes had begun to deteriorate rapidly, about a week before Christmas. On some days he’d call Geraldine by his wife’s name, and ta
ke Cal for his brother. The prognosis had not been good, but nobody had expected this sudden exit. No opportunity for explanations or fond farewells. One day he was here, the next he could only be mourned.
Much as Cal had loved Brendan, he found grief difficult. It was Geraldine who wept; Geraldine who had all the proper sentiments to hand out when the neighbours came to offer their condolences. Cal could only play the part of the grieving child, not feel it. All he felt was ill at ease.
That feeling grew stronger as the cremation approached. He was increasingly detached from himself, viewing his absence of emotion with a disbelieving eye. It seemed suddenly there were two Cals. One, the public mourner, dealing with the business of death as propriety demanded, the other a coruscating critic of the first, calling the bluff of every cliché and empty gesture. It was Mad Mooney’s voice, this second: the scourge of liars and hypocrites. ‘You’re not real at all,’ the poet would whisper. ‘Look at you! Sham that you are!’
This dislocation brought strange side-effects; most significantly, the dreams that now returned to him. He dreamt himself floating in air as clear as love’s eyes; dreamt trees heavy with golden fruit; dreamt animals that spoke like people, and people who roared. He dreamt of the pigeons too, several times a night, and on more than one occasion he woke certain that 33 and his mate had spoken to him, in their bird way, though he could make no sense of their advice.
The idea was still with him by day, and – though he knew the notion was laughable – he found himself quizzing the birds as he fed them their daily bread, asking them, half in jest, to give up what they knew. They just winked their eyes, and grew fat.
The funeral came and went. Eileen’s relatives came across from Tyneside, and Brendan’s from Belfast. There was whisky, and Guinness for Brendan’s brothers, and ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and when the glasses and the plates were empty they all went home.
2
‘We should have a holiday.’ Geraldine suggested a week after the funeral. ‘You haven’t been sleeping well.’
He was sitting at the dining-room window, watching the garden.
‘We need to do some work on the house,’ he said. ‘It’s depressing me.’
‘We can always sell it,’ she replied.
It was a simple solution, and one his torpid mind hadn’t conceived of. That’s a bloody good idea,’ he said. ‘Find somewhere without a railway at the bottom of the garden.’
They started searching for another house immediately, before the better weather inflated prices. Geraldine was in her element, leading him round the properties with a seamless outpouring of observations and ideas. They found a modest terraced house in Wavertree which they both liked, and put an offer in for it, which was accepted. But the Chariot Street house proved more difficult to move. Two purchasers came to the brink of signing contracts, then withdrew. Even Geraldine’s high spirits lost buoyancy as the weeks drew on.
They lost the Wavertree house at the beginning of March, and were obliged to begin the search over again. But their enthusiasm was much depleted, and they found nothing they liked.
And still, in dreams, the birds spoke. And still he couldn’t interpret their wisdom.
VII
TALES OF SPOOK CITY
1
ive weeks after Brendan’s remains had been scattered on the Lawn of Remembrance, Cal opened the door to a man with a wry, ruddy face, sparse hair brushed ear to ear to shelter his pate, and the stub of a hefty cigar between his fingers.
‘Mr Mooney?’ he said, and without waiting for confirmation, went on: ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Gluck.’ Transferring his cigar from right to left he gripped Cal’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Anthony Gluck,’ he said. The man’s face was vaguely familiar; from where, Cal wracked his brain to remember. ‘I wonder,’ Gluck said, ‘if I may have a word with you?’
‘I vote Labour,’ said Cal.
‘I’m not canvassing. I’m interested in the house.’
‘Oh,’ said Cal, beaming. Then come on in,’ and he led Gluck through into the dining-room. The man was at the window in an instant, peering into the garden.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So this is it.’
‘It’s chaos at the moment,’ said Cal with faint apology.
‘You left it untouched?’ said Gluck.
‘Untouched?’
‘Since the events in Chariot Street.’
‘Do you really want to buy the house?’ said Cal.
‘Buy?’ said Gluck. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize it was for sale.’
‘You said you were interested –’
‘So I am. But not to buy. No, I’m interested in the place because it was the centre of the disturbances last August. Am I right?’
Cal had only a patchwork memory of the events of that day. Certainly he remembered the freak whirlwind that had done so much damage in Chariot Street. He remembered the interview with Hobart quite clearly too; and how it had prevented his meeting with Suzanna. But there was much else – the Rake, the death of Lilia, indeed everything that sprang from the matter of the Fugue – that his mind had eclipsed.
Gluck’s enthusiasm intrigued him however.
‘That was no natural event,’ he said. ‘Not by a long chalk. It was a perfect example of what we in the business call anomalous phenomena.’
‘Business?’
‘You know what some people are calling Liverpool these days?’
‘No.’
‘Spook City.’
‘Spook City?’
‘And with good reason, believe me.’
‘What did you mean when you said business?’
‘In essence it’s very simple. I document events that defy explanation; events that fall outside the comprehension of the scientific community, which people therefore choose not to see. Anomalous phenomena.’
‘This has always been a windy city,’ Cal pointed out.
‘Believe me,’ said Gluck, ‘there was more to what happened here last summer than a high wind. There was a house on the other side of the river simply reduced to rubble overnight. There were mass hallucinations that took place in broad daylight. There were lights in the sky – brilliant lights – witnessed by hundreds of people. All that and more happened in the vicinity of this city, over a two or three day time period. Does that sound like coincidence to you?’
‘No. If you’re sure it all –’
‘All happened? Oh, it happened Mr Mooney. I’ve been collecting this kind of material for twenty years and more, collecting and collating it, and there are patterns in these phenomena.’
‘They don’t just happen here, then?’
‘Good God, no. I get reports sent to me from all over Europe. After a while, you begin to see some kind of picture emerge.’
As Gluck spoke Cal remembered where he’d seen the man before. On a television programme, talking – if he remembered rightly – about governmental silence on visits from alien ambassadors.
‘What happened in Chariot Street,’ he was saying, ‘and all over this city, is part of a pattern which is perfectly apparent to those of us who study these things.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means we’re watched, Mr Mooney. We’re scrutinized the live-long day.’
‘Who by?’
‘Creatures from another world, with a technology which beggars our own. I’ve only seen fragments of their artifacts, left behind by careless voyagers. But they’re enough to prove we’re less to them than household pets.’
‘Really?’
‘I recognize that look, Mr Mooney,’ said Gluck, without irritation. ‘You’re humouring me. But I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. Especially in this past year. Either they’re getting more careless, or they simply don’t mind if we’re wise to them any longer.’
‘Which means what?’
‘That their plans for us are entering some final phase. That their installations on our planet are in place, and we’ll be defeated before
we begin.’
‘They mean to invade us?’
‘You may scoff – ’
‘I’m not scoffing. Really I’m not. I can’t say it’s easy to believe, but …’ He thought, for the first time in many months, of Mad Mooney. ‘… I’m interested to hear what you have to say.’
‘Well,’ said Gluck, his fierce expression mellowing. That makes a refreshing change. I’m usually thought of as comic relief. But let me tell you: I’m scrupulous in my researches.’
‘I believe it.’
‘I’ve no need to massage the truth,’ he said proudly, ‘It’s quite convincing enough as it is.’
He talked on, of his recent investigations, and what they’d turned up. Britain, it seemed, was alive from end to end with events prodigious and bizarre. Had Cal heard, he enquired, of the rain of deep-sea fish that had fallen on Halifax?; or the village in Wiltshire that boasted its own Borealis?; or of the three-year-old in Blackpool whose grasp of hieroglyphics had been picture-perfect since birth? All true stories, he claimed; all verifiable. And they were the least of it. The island seemed to be ankle-deep in miracles to which most of its inhabitants turned a blind eye.
‘The truth’s in front of our noses,’ said Gluck. ‘If we could only see it. The visitors are here. In England.’
It was an attractive notion – an apocalypse of fishes and wise children, to turn England inside out; and nonsensical as the facts appeared, Gluck’s conviction was powerfully persuasive. But there was something wrong with his thesis. Cal couldn’t work out what – and he certainly wasn’t in any position to argue the point – but his gut told him that somewhere along the road Gluck had taken a wrong turning. What was so unsettling was the process this fabulous litany had begun in his head; a scrabbling for some fact he’d once possessed and now forgotten. Just beyond his fingertips.
