Sacrament

by Clive Barker

“Yes.”

  “Point it out to me, will you?”

  “You see past where the police car’s parked, there’s a bend in the road?”

  “I see.”

  “There’s a street just round the bend, going left?”

  “I see that, too.”

  “That’s Samson Road,” Will said. “They live in the house with the junkyard beside it.”

  Jacob was silent for a few seconds while he studied the lay of the land.

  “I can get the book for you,” Will reminded him, just in case he was thinking of going on alone.

  “I know,” Jacob said. “I’m relying on you. But I don’t think it’d be very wise for us to just walk through the middle of the village right now.”

  “We can go around the back,” Will said. He pointed out a route that would take them another half-hour to complete but would keep them out of the way of witnesses.

  “It seems the wisest option,” Jacob said. He teased off his right-hand glove, and reached into his coat to take out his knife.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, catching Will’s anxious glance, “I won’t taint it with human blood unless it’s strictly necessary.” Will shuddered. An hour ago, climbing the hill with Jacob, he’d felt happier than he’d felt in his life before; the feel of that blade had made his palm tremble with pleasure, and the little deaths he’d caused filled him with pride. Now all that seemed like another world, another Will. He looked down at his hands.

  He’d never finished scrubbing them clean, and even in the murk he could see that they were still stained with the bird’s blood. He felt a spasm of self-disgust, if he could have fled then and there, he might well have done so. But that would have left Jacob searching for the book on his own, and Will didn’t dare risk that—not while he was carrying that knife of his. Will knew from experience how self-possessed it could be, how eager to do harm.

  Turning his back on man and knife, he resumed his descent, no longer heading directly into the village but around it, so as to bring them undiscovered to the Cunninghams’s doorstep.

  ii

  When Frannie woke, the clock beside the bed said five-twenty-five. She got up anyway, knowing that her father, who had always been an early riser, would also be up in the next fifteen minutes.

  In fact, she found him in the kitchen, already fully dressed, pouring himself a cup of tea and smoking a cigarette. He gave her a grim little smile of welcome. “Something’s going on out there,” he said, spooning sugar into his tea. “I’m going out to see what’s happening.”

  “Have some toast first,” she said. She didn’t wait for a reply.

  She took a loaf out of the bread bin, then went to the drawer for the breadknife, then to the cooker to turn on the grill, and back to slice the bread—and all the time, toing and froing, she was thinking how strange it was to be pretending that there was nothing really different about the world this morning, when she knew in her heart that this wasn’t so.

  It was her father who finally spoke, his back to her as he gazed out of the kitchen window. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Things going on these days . . .” he shook his head, “used to be safe for folks.”

  Frannie had slid two slices of the thickly cut bread beneath the grill and, fetching her favorite mug out of the cupboard, poured herself some tea. Like her dad, she sugared it heavily.

  They were the two sweet tooths in the family.

  “It makes me scared for you, sometimes,” her father said, turning back to look at Frannie, “the way the world’s going.”

  “I’ll be all right, Dad,” she said.

  “I know you will,” he said, though his expression belied his words. “We’ll all be fine.” He opened his arms to her, and she went to him, hugging him hard. “Only you’ll see as you get older,” he said, “there’s more bad out there than good. That’s why you work hard to make a safe place for the people you love. Somewhere you can lock the door.” He rocked her in his embrace. “You’re my princess, you know that?”

  “I know,” she said, smiling up at him.

  A police car roared past, siren blaring. The happiness faded from George Cunningham’s face.

  “I’ll butter us some toast,” Frannie said, patting his chest.

  “That’ll make us feel better.” She pulled the slices out from under the grill and flipped them over. “You want some marmalade?”

  “No thanks,” he said, watching her as she fussed around: to the fridge for some butter, then back to the cooker, where she picked up the hot toast and put it on a plate. Then she slathered on the butter, the way she knew he liked it.

  “There,” she said, presenting him with the toast. He wolfed it down, murmuring his approval.

  All she needed now was milk for her tea. The carton was empty, but the milkman might have arrived by now, so she padded through to the front door to fetch the delivery.

  The front door had been bolted top and bottom, which was unusual. Plainly her parents had gone to bed nervous. Frannie reached up and unbolted the top then, stooping to unbolt the bottom, opened the door.

  There was still no sign of the day, not a glimmer. It was going to be one of those winter days when light barely seemed to touch the world before it was gone again. The snow had stopped falling, however, and the street looked like a well-made bed in the lamplight—plump white pillows piled against walls and quilts laid on roofs and pavements. She found the sight comforting in its prettiness. It reminded her that Christmas would soon be here, and there’d be reasons for songs and laughter.

  The step was empty; the milk was late being delivered today. Oh well, she thought, I’ll have to do without.

  And then, the sound of feet crunching on snow. She looked up and saw somebody had appeared at the opposite side of the street. Whoever it was stood beyond the lamplight, but only for a few moments. Realizing he’d been seen, he stepped out of the gray gloom and into view. It was Will.

  XIII

  i

  Rosa waited on the rock, listening. They would be upon her soon, her pursuers. She could hear every creak of their snow-caked boots as they followed her trail up the hillside to where she sat. One of them—there were four—was smoking as he climbed (she could see the pinprick of his cigarette, brightening whenever he drew on it); one of them was young, his breathing easier than that of his companions; one took out a flask of brandy every now and then and, when he offered it around, had a distinct slur in his voice. The fourth was quieter than the others, but sometimes, if she listened very carefully, she thought she heard him murmuring something to himself. It was too indistinct for her to understand, but she suspected it was a prayer.

  Her exchanges with Jacob had been quite straightforward.

  She’d freely admitted to what she’d done in the Courthouse and told him he’d better get out of harm’s way before the mob was upon them. He’d told her he would not be leaving the vicinity just yet, he had work to do in the village. When she asked him what manner of work, he told her he wasn’t about to share secrets with a woman who’d probably be under interrogation before dawn.

  “Is that a dare, Mr. Steep?” she said.

  “You might take it that way, I suppose,” he’d replied.

  “Would you have their deaths on my conscience?” she’d said, to which he’d replied, “What conscience?” His response had amused her mightily, and for a few moments, standing there on the hillside with Jacob, it had almost seemed like old times.

  “Well,” she said, “now you’ve been warned.”

  “Is that all you’re going to do?” Jacob had replied. “Warn me, then walk away?”

  “What else do you suggest?” she said with a little smile.

  “I want you to make sure they don’t come after me.”

  “So say it,” she’d whispered. “Say: Kill them for me, Rosa.” She’d leaned closer to him; his heartbeat had quickened. She’d heard it, loud and clear. “If you want them dead, Jacob, then all you have to do is ask.” Her lips were so
close to his ear, they were almost touching. “Nobody’s going to know but us.”

  He’d said nothing for a few seconds, and then, in that resigned voice of his, he’d murmured the words she’d wanted to hear, “Kill them for me.” Then he’d gone on his way with the boy. Now she waited, feeling altogether happier. Though he’d been willing to kill her just a few hours before, she more and more thought it would be better for them both if they made peace. She’d exacted her revenge for his attempt on her life, so she was willing to put the incident behind her, if things could be permanently healed between them. And they could, she was certain, with a little work, a little patience. Maybe their relationship could never be quite what it had been before—there’d be no further attempts at children, she was resigned to that—but a healthy marriage wasn’t carved in stone. It changed, deepened and matured. That was how it could be between Jacob and herself, by and by. They would learn a fresh respect for one another, find fresh ways to express their devotion.

  Which brought her back to the purpose of this vigil on the rock. What more perfect way of demonstrating her love than this: to commit murder for him?

  She held her breath and listened intently. The man with the slurred voice was complaining about the climb; he couldn’t go any further, he was saying. He’d have to leave them to go on without him.

  “No, no,” she said to herself softly. She was ready to take four lives, and four lives she would take. No excuses.

  While the men debated, she made her own decision: No more waiting. If they were going to procrastinate then she would take control of events and go to them. Drawing a deep breath, she rose from her squatting place, clambered down off the rock and, almost girlish with anticipation, began to retrace her tracks to where her victims stood.

  ii

  Will looked terrible. Gray face, clothes torn and sodden, his gait a shambling limp. He looked the way Frannie imagined somebody dead would look. Dead, but come back in the middle of the night to say goodbye.

  She put that stupidity out of her head. Will needed help: That was all that mattered right now. Though she was barefoot, she stepped off the threshold and started toward him, her legs plunged shin-deep in snow. “Come on into the warm,” she said to him.

  He shook his head. “There’s no time,” he said. He sounded as sick as he looked. “I just came to get the book back.”

  “You told him?”

  “Yes . . . I had to,” Will said. “It’s his book, Frannie, and he wants it back.”

  She stopped advancing, suddenly realizing her naïveté. Will wasn’t here unaccompanied. Jacob Steep was with him. Out of sight, somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamplight, but close at hand. Was that why Will looked so ill, she wondered?

  Had Steep hurt him somehow? Keeping her head directed at Will, she looked for a sign of motion in the shadows behind him.

  Somehow she had to get Will off the street and back into the safety of the house, without arousing Steep’s suspicion.

  “The book’s upstairs,” she said, as casually as she could.

  “Just come on in while I fetch it for you.” Will shook his head, but there was sufficient hesitation before he did so for her to think he might be tempted to step into the warmth if she pressed a little harder.

  “Come on,” she said. “It won’t take me more than a minute or two. There’s tea. And buttered toast—” (they were, she knew, just simple domesticities, set against whatever claim Steep had upon him; pitiful, probably, in the scheme of things. But they were all she had).

  “I don’t . . . want to come in,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Okay,” she said lightly. “I’ll go and get the book.” She turned back toward the house, wondering already what she was going to do once she got inside. Did she leave the door open, hoping to coax Will over the threshold, or did she close it, protecting the house and her family from the man watching in the shadows?

  She compromised, leaving the door an inch ajar in case Will changed his mind. Then, teeth chattering, she started upstairs.

  From the kitchen, her father said, “Did you get the milk?”

  “I’ll be down in a minute, Dad,” she called, and hurried to her room. She knew exactly where she’d hidden the book, of course: She had it in her hands in seconds, and was halfway back to the hallway when she heard Sherwood say, “What are you doing?”

  She glanced up to the landing, attempting to keep the book out of his bleary sight. But she wasn’t quick enough.

  “Where are you taking that?” he said, moving to the top of the stairs to pursue her.

  “Stay up there!” she ordered him, imitating her mother’s severest tone. “I mean it, Sherwood.”

  Her instruction didn’t slow him a jot. Worse, it brought her father out of the kitchen, hushing her. “You’ll wake your mom, Frannie.” His gaze went from the staircase to the door, which the wind had blown wide. “No wonder there’s such a draft!” he said, striding to close it.

  Panicking now, she raced down the stairs to intercept him.

  “I’ll close it! It’s okay!” But she was too late. Her father was there ahead of her, staring out into the snow. He had seen Will.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he said, glancing back at Frannie, who was by now just a yard behind him. “Did you know he was here?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “God Almighty!” he said, raising his voice. “Have you kids no sense? William? Come on in here right now. You hear me!” Frannie could see Will over her father’s shoulder, and remotely hoped he might obey. But instead he retreated a few steps.

  “Come back here!” George demanded, stepping out of the house to lend weight to his order.

  “Dad, don’t—” Frannie began.

  “Shut up!” her father snapped.

  “He’s not on his own, Dad,” Frannie said.

  That was enough to slow her father. “What are you talking about?”

  Frannie had reached the front doorstep. “Please, leave him alone.”

  Her father’s strained temper broke. “Go inside!” he yelled.

  “You hear me, Frances?” She was certain the whole neighbor-hood heard him. It would only be a matter of time before everyone was out in the street, asking questions. The best thing for everyone was for her to get the book into Will’s hands and let him deliver it to Steep. It was Steep’s property, when all was said and done. Everyone would be better off if it was back where it belonged.

  But before she could defy her father’s edict and step outside, Sherwood grabbed hold of her.

  “Who’s out there?” he said. His morning breath was foul, his grip clammy.

  “It’s just Will,” she lied.

  “You’re fibbing, Frannie,” he said. “It’s them, isn’t it?” He was looking past her now, out into the darkness. “Rosa?” he said softly. Then, saying, “I’ll take the book!” he tried to snatch it out of Frannie’s grip. She refused to relinquish it. Using all her strength, she shoved her brother hard in the middle of the chest, pushing him back down the hallway. Mrs. Cunningham was descending the stairs now, demanding to know what was going on, but Frannie ignored her and stepped back out into the snow, just in time to see her father closing on Will, who seemed to have no strength left to retreat. His ashen face was slack, his body swaying.

  “Don’t . . .” Frannie heard him say, as her father reached out for him. Then, as Mr. Cunningham’s hand was laid upon him, he collapsed, his eyes rolling up beneath his fluttering lids.

  Frannie didn’t linger to see what state he was in. She strode on past her father, who was having too much difficulty keeping Will’s dead weight from carrying them both to the ground to stop her, and out into the middle of the street. She raised the journal as she did so, high above her head, where Steep could see it.

  “This is what you want,” she said, almost under her breath.

  “Come and get it.”

  She turned three hundred sixty degrees, waiting for him to show himself. There was her mother at the
front doorstep, demanding that she come back inside this second. There was their next door neighbor, Mrs. Davies, standing at her front gate with her bratty terrier Benny yapping fit to bust. There was the milkman, Arthur Rathbone, stepping out of his van, with a puzzled look on his face.

  And then, as she began her second turn, there was Steep.

  He was approaching her with a steady stride, his gloved hand already outstretched to claim his prize. She wanted to keep the largest distance possible between the enemy and the front door of her house, so she didn’t wait until he came to her but went to meet him on the opposite side of the street. Curiously, she felt only the tiniest twinge of fear. This street was her world—nagging mother, yapping dog, milkman, and all. He had little authority here, even in the dark.

  They were within a couple of yards of each other now, and she could see better the look on his face. He was happy, his eyes glued to the book in her hand.

  “Good girl,” he murmured to her and had it out of her hand before she was even aware that it was gone.

  “He didn’t mean to take it,” she called after him, just in case he bore Sherwood some ill will. “He didn’t know it was important.” Steep nodded. “It is important, isn’t it?” she said, hoping against hope he’d leave her with a clue, however vague, as to the nature of the book’s contents. But if he understood her intention, he wasn’t about to give anything away. Instead, he said,

  “Tell Will to watch out for Lord Fox, will you?”

  “Lord Fox?”

  “He’ll understand,” Steep said. “He’s part of the madness now.”

  With that, he turned his back on her and was gone, off down the street—past her father’s yard, past Arthur Rathbone, who wisely stepped out of his way, past the postbox at the corner, and out of sight.

  She kept watching the corner for several seconds after he’d gone, deaf to the sobs and yells and yappings. She felt suddenly bereft. A mystery had gone from her hands, and now she’d never solve it. All she had to vex her were her memories of those pages and their tiny hieroglyphics, laid out like a wall built to keep her from understanding what lay on the other side.