by Clive Barker
Back in the workshop, Lacey was waiting for him. It was almost seven-fifteen: classes were well over. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting, sir."
"What for?"
"You, sir. I wanted to give you a letter, sir. For me mam. Will you get it to her?"
"You can send it through the usual channels, can't you? Give it to the Secretary, she'll forward it. You're allowed two letters a week."
Lacey's face fell.
"They read them, sir: in case you write something you shouldn't. And if you do, they burn them." "And you've written something you shouldn't?"
He nodded.
"What?"
"About Kevin. I told her all about Kevin, about what happened to him."
"I'm not sure you've got your facts right about Henessey."
The boy shrugged. "It's true, sir," he said quietly, apparently no longer caring if he convinced Redman or not "It's true. He's there, sir. In her."
"In who? What are you talking about?"
Maybe Lacey was speaking, as Leverthal had suggested, simply out of his fear. There had to be a limit to his patience with the boy, and this was just about it.
A knock on the door, and a spotty individual called Slape was staring at him through the wired glass. "Come in."
"Urgent telephone call for you, sir. In the Secretary's Office."
Redman hated the telephone. Unsavory machine: it never brought good tidings.
"Urgent. Who from?"
Slape shrugged and picked at his face.
"Stay with Lacey, will you?"
Slape looked unhappy with the prospect.
"Here, sir?" he asked.
"Here."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm relying on you, so don't let me down."
"No, sir."
Redman turned to Lacey. The bruised look was a wound now open, as he wept.
"Give me your letter. I'll take it to the Office."
Lacey had thrust the envelope into his pocket. He retrieved it unwillingly, and handed it across to Redman. "Say thank you."
"Thank you, sir."
The corridors were empty.
It was television time, and the nightly worship of the box had begun. They would be glued to the black and white set that dominated the Recreation Room, sitting through the pap of Cop Shows and Game Shows and Wars from the World Shows with their jaws open and their minds closed. A hypnotized silence would fall on the assembled company until a promise of violence or a hint of sex. Then the room would erupt in whistles, obscenities, and shouts of encouragement, only to subside again into sullen silence during the dialogue, as they waited for another gun, another breast. He could hear gunfire and music, even now, echoing down the corridor.
The Office was open, but the Secretary wasn't there. Gone home presumably. The clock in the Office said eight nineteen. Redman amended his watch.
The telephone was on the hook. Whoever had called him had tired of waiting, leaving no message. Relieved as he was that the call wasn't urgent enough to keep the caller hanging on, he now felt disappointed not to be speaking to the outside world. Like Crusoe seeing a sail, only to have it sweep by his island.
Ridiculous: this wasn't his prison. He could walk out whenever he liked. He would walk out that very night: and be Crusoe no longer.
He contemplated leaving Lacey's letter on the desk, but thought better of it. He had promised to protect the boy's interests, and that he would do. If necessary, he'd post the letter himself.
Thinking of nothing in particular, he started back towards the workshop. Vague wisps of unease floated in his system, clogging his responses. Sighs sat in his throat, scowls on his face. This damn place, he said aloud, not meaning the walls and the floors, but the trap they represented. He felt he could die here with his good intentions arrayed around him like flowers round a stiff, and nobody would know, or care, or mourn. Idealism was weakness here, compassion and indulgence. Unease was all: unease and -Silence.
That was what was wrong. Though the television still popped and screamed down the corridor, there was silence accompanying it. No wolf-whistles, no cat-calls.
Redman darted back to the vestibule and down the corridor to the Recreation Room. Smoking was allowed in this section of the building, and the area stank of stale cigarettes. Ahead, the noise of mayhem continued unabated. A woman screamed somebody's name. A man answered and was cut off by a blast of gunfire. Stories, half-told, hung in the air.
He reached the room, and opened the door.
The television spoke to him. "Get down!"
"He's got a gun!"
Another shot.
The woman, blonde, big-breasted, took the bullet in her heart, and died on the sidewalk beside the man she'd loved. The tragedy went unwatched. The Recreation Room was empty, the old armchairs and graffiti-carved stools placed around the television set for an audience who had better entertainment for the evening. Redman wove between the seats and turned the television off. As the silver-blue fluorescence died, and the insistent beat of the music was cut dead, he became aware, in the gloom, in the hush, of somebody at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Slape, sir."
"I told you to stay with Lacey."
"He had to go, sir."
"Go?"
"He ran off, sir. I couldn't stop him."
"Damn you. What do you mean, you couldn't stop him?"
Redman started to re-cross the room, catching his foot on a stool. It scraped on the linoleum, a little protest.
Slape twitched.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "I couldn't catch him. I've got a bad foot."
Yes, Slape did limp. "Which way did he go?" Slape shrugged. "Not sure, sir."
"Well, remember."
"No need to lose your temper, sir."
The 'sir' was slurred: a parody of respect. Redman found his hand itching to hit this pus-filled adolescent. He was within a couple of feet of the door. Slape didn't move aside.
"Out of my way, Slape."
"Really, sir, there's no way you can help him now. He's gone."
"I said, out of my way."
As he stepped forward to push Slape aside there was a click at navel-level and the bastard had a flick-knife pressed to Redman's belly. The point bit the fat of his stomach.
"There's really no need to go after him, sir."
"What in God's name are you doing, Slape?"
"We're just playing a game," he said through teeth gone grey.
"There's no real harm in it. Best leave well alone."
The point of the knife had drawn blood. Warmly, it wended its way down into Redman's groin. Slape was prepared to kill him; no doubt of that. Whatever this game was, Slape was having a little fun all of his own. Killing teacher, it was called. The knife was still being pressed, infinitesimally slowly, through the wall of Redman's flesh. The little rivulet of blood had thickened into a stream.
"Kevin likes to come out and play once in a while," said Slape.
"Henessey?"
"Yes, you like to call us by our second names, don't you? That's more manly isn't it? That means we're not children, that means we're men. Kevin isn't quite a man though, you see sir. He's never wanted to be a man. In fact, I think he hated the idea. You know why? (The knife divided muscle now, just gently). He thought once you were a man, you started to die: and Kevin used to say he'd never die."
"Never die." "Never."
"I want to meet him."
"Everybody does, sir. He's charismatic. That's the Doctor's word for him: Charismatic."
"I want to meet this charismatic fellow."
"Soon."
"Now."
"I said soon."
Redman took the knife-hand at the wrist so quickly Slape had no chance to press the weapon home. The adolescent's response was slow, doped perhaps, and Redman had the better of him. The knife dropped from his hand as Redman's grip tightened, the other hand took Slape in a strangle-hold, easily rounding his emaciated neck. Redman's palm pressed
on his assailant's Adam's apple, making him gargle.
"Where's Henessey? You take me to him."
The eyes that looked down at Redman were slurred as his words, the irises pin-pricks.
"Take me to him!" Redman demanded.
Slape's hand found Redman's cut belly, and his fist jabbed the wound. Redman cursed, letting his hold slip, and Slape almost slid out of his grasp, but Redman drove his knee into the other's groin, fast and sharp. Slape wanted to double up in agony, but the neck-hold prevented him. The knee rose again, harder. And again. Again. Spontaneous tears ran down Slape's face, coursing through the minefield of his boils.
"I can hurt you twice as badly as you can hurt me," Redman said, “so if you want to go on doing this all night I'm happy as a sand-boy."
Slape shook his head, grabbing his breath through his constricted windpipe in short, painful gasps. "You don't want any more?"
Slape shook his head again. Redman let go of him, and flung him across the corridor against the wall. Whimpering with pain, his face crimped, he slid down the wall into a fetal position, hands between his legs. "Where's Lacey?"
Slape had begun to shake; the words tumbled out. "Where d'you think? Kevin's got him."
"Where's Kevin?"
Slape looked up at Redman, puzzled.
"Don't you know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I did, would I?"
Slape seemed to pitch forward as he spoke, letting out a sigh of pain. Redman's first thought was that the youth was collapsing, but Slape had other ideas. The knife was suddenly in his hand again, snatched from the floor, and Slape was driving it up towards Redman's groin. He sidestepped the cut with a hair's breadth to spare, and Slape was on his feet again, the pain forgotten. The knife slit the air back and forth, Slape hissing his intention through his teeth. "Kill you, pig. Kill you, pig."
Then his mouth was wide and he was yelling: "Kevin! Kevin! Help me!"
The slashes were less and less accurate as Slape lost control of himself, tears, snot and sweat sliming his face as he stumbled towards his intended victim.
Redman chose his moment, and delivered a crippling blow to Slape's knee, the weak leg, he guessed. He guessed correctly.
Slape screamed, and staggered back, reeling round and hitting the wall face on. Redman followed through, pressing Slape's back. Too late, he realized what he'd done. Slape's body relaxed as his knife hand, crushed between wall and body, slid out, bloody and weapon less. Slape exhaled death-air, and collapsed heavily against the wall, driving the knife still deeper into his own gut. He was dead before he touched the ground.
Redman turned him over. He'd never become used to the suddenness of death. To be gone so quickly, like the image on the television screen. Switched off and blank. No message.
The utter silence of the corridors became overwhelming as he walked back towards the vestibule. The cut on his stomach was not significant, and the blood had made its own scabby bandage of his shirt, knitting cotton to flesh and sealing the wound. It scarcely hurt at all. But the cut was the least of his problems: he had mysteries to unravel now, and he felt unable to face them. The used, exhausted atmosphere of the place made him feel, in his turn, used and exhausted. There was no health to be had here, no goodness, no reason.
He believed, suddenly, in ghosts.
In the vestibule there was a light burning, a bare bulb suspended over the dead space. By it, he read Lacey's crumpled letter. The smudged words on the paper were like matches set to the tinder of his panic.
Mama, they fed me to the pig. Don't believe them if they said I never loved you, or if they said I ran away. I never did. They fed me to the pig. I love you.
Tommy.
He pocketed the letter and began to run out of the building and across the field. It was well dark now: a deep, starless dark, and the air was muggy. Even in daylight he wasn't sure of the route to the farm; it was worse by night. He was very soon lost, somewhere between the playing-field and the trees. It was too far to see the outline of the main building behind him, and the trees ahead all looked alike.
The night-air was foul; no wind to freshen tired limbs. It was as still outside as inside, as though the whole world had become an interior: a suffocating room bounded by a painted ceiling of cloud.
He stood in the dark, the blood thumping in his head, and tried to orient himself.
To his left, where he had guessed the out-houses to be, a light glimmered. Clearly he was completely mistaken about his position. The light was at the sty. It threw the ramshackle chicken run into silhouette as he stared at it. There were figures there, several; standing as if watching a spectacle he couldn't yet see.
He started towards the sty, not knowing what he would do once he reached it. If they were all armed like Slape, and shared his murderous intentions, then that would be the end of him. The thought didn't worry him. Somehow tonight to get off of this closed-down world was an attractive option. Down and out.
And there was Lacey. There'd been a moment of doubt, after speaking to Leverthal, when he'd wondered why he cared so much about the boy. That accusation of special pleading, it had a certain truth to it. Was there something in him that wanted Thomas Lacey naked beside him? Wasn't that the sub-text of Leverthal's remark? Even now, running uncertainly towards the lights, all he could think of was the boy's eyes, huge and demanding, looking deep into his.
Ahead there were figures in the night, wandering away from the farm. He could see them against the lights of the sty. Was it all over already? He made a long curve around to the left of the buildings to avoid the spectators as they left the scene. They made no noise: there was no chatter or laughter amongst them. Like a congregation leaving a funeral they walked evenly in the dark, each apart from the other, heads bowed. It was eerie, to see these godless delinquents so subdued by reverence.
He reached the chicken-run without encountering any of them face to face.
There were still a few figures lingering around the pig-house. The wall of the sow's compartment was lined with candles, dozens and dozens of them. They burned steadily in the still air, throwing a rich warm light on to brick, and on to the faces of the few who still stared into the mysteries of the sty.
Leverthal was among them, as was the warder who'd knelt at Lacey's head that first day. Two or three boys were there too, whose faces he recognized but could put no name to.
There was a noise from the sty, the sound of the sow's feet on the straw as she accepted their stares. Somebody was speaking, but he couldn't make out who. An adolescent's voice, with a lilt to it. As the voice halted in its monologue, the warder and another of the boys broke rank, as if dismissed, and turned away into the dark. Redman crept a little closer. Time was of the essence now. Soon the first of the congregation would have crossed the field and be back in the Main Building. They'd see Slape's corpse: raise the alarm. He must find Lacey now, if indeed Lacey was still to be found.
Leverthal saw him first. She looked up from the sty and nodded a greeting, apparently unconcerned by his arrival. It was as if his appearance at this place was inevitable, as if all routes led back to the farm, to the straw house and the smell of excrement. It made a kind of sense that she'd believe that. He almost believed it himself.
"Leverthal," he said.
She smiled at him, openly. The boy beside her raised his head and smiled too.
"Are you Henessey?" he asked, looking at the boy.
The youth laughed, and so did Leverthal.
"No," she said. "No. No. No. Henessey is here."
She pointed into the sty.
Redman walked the few remaining yards to the wall of the sty, expecting and not daring to expect, the straw and the blood and the pig and Lacey.
But Lacey wasn't there. Just the sow, big and beady as ever, standing amongst pats of her own ordure, her huge, ridiculous ears flapping over her eyes.
"Where's Henessey?" asked Redman, meeting the sow's gaze.
"Here," said the boy.
"This is a pig."
"She ate him," said the youth, still smiling. He obviously thought the idea delightful. "She ate him: and he speaks out of her."
Redman wanted to laugh. This made Lacey's tales of ghosts seem almost plausible by comparison. They were telling him the pig was possessed.
"Did Henessey hang himself, as Tommy said?"
Leverthal nodded.
"In the sty?"
Another nod.
Suddenly the pig took on a different aspect. In his imagination he saw her reaching up to sniff at the feet of Henessey's twitching body, sensing the death coming over it, salivating at the thought of its flesh. He saw her licking the dew that oozed from its skin as it rotted, lapping at it, nibbling daintily at first, then devouring it. It wasn't too difficult to understand how the boys could have made a mythology of that atrocity: inventing hymns to it, attending upon the pig like a god. The candles, the reverence, the intended sacrifice of Lacey: it was evidence of sickness, but it was no more strange than a thousand other customs of faith. He even began to understand Lacey's lassitude, his inability to fight the powers that overtook him.
Mama, they fed me to the pig.
Not Mama, help me, save me. Just: they gave me to the pig.
All this he could understand: they were children, many of them under-educated, some verging on mental instability, all susceptible to superstition. But that didn't explain Leverthal. She was staring into the sty again, and Redman registered for the first time that her hair was unclipped, and lay on her shoulders, honey-coloured in the candlelight. "It looks like a pig to me, plain and simple," he said.
"She speaks with his voice," Leverthal said, quietly. "Speaks in tongues, you might say. You'll hear him in a while. My darling boy."
Then he understood. "You and Henessey?"
"Don't look so horrified," she said. "He was eighteen: hair blacker than you've ever seen. And he loved me." "Why did he hang himself?"
"To live forever," she said, “so he'd never be a man, and die."
"We didn't find him for six days," said the youth, almost whispering it in Redman's ear, “and even then she wouldn't let anybody near him, once she had him to herself. The pig, I mean. Not the Doctor. Everyone loved Kevin, you see," he whispered intimately. "He was beautiful."
