by Clive Barker
"Do you know a man by the name of D'Amour? Harry D'Amour?"
"Indeed I do. I'm going up to his place right now."
"Perhaps you could show me the way?" the woman asked him, as Byron closed the door.
"Be my pleasure," he replied, and led her across the lobby to the bottom of the stairs.
"You know, you're very sweet," she told him; and Byron melted.
Valentin stood at the window.
"Something wrong?" Harry asked.
"Just a feeling," Valentin commented. "I have a suspicion maybe the Devil's in Manhattan."
"So what's new?"
"That maybe he's coming for us." As if on cue there was a knock at the door. Harry jumped.
"It's all right," Valentin said, “he never knocks."
Harry went to the door, feeling like a fool.
"Is that you, Byron?" he asked before unlocking it.
"Please," said a voice he thought he'd never hear again.
"Help me…"
He opened the door. It was Dorothea, of course. She was colourless as water, and as unpredictable. Even before Harry had invited her across the office threshold a dozen expressions, or hints of such, had crossed her face: anguish, suspicion, terror. And now, as her eyes alighted upon the body of her beloved Swann, relief and gratitude. "You do have him," she said, stepping into the office. Harry closed the door. There was a chill from up the stairs. Thank God. Thank God." She took Harry's face in her hands and kissed him lightly on the lips. Only then did she notice Valentin.
She dropped her hands.
"What's he doing here?" she asked.
"He's with me. With us."
She looked doubtful. "No," she said.
"We can trust him."
"I said no! Get him out, Harry." There was a cold fury in her; she shook with it. "Get him out!" Valentin stared at her, glassy-eyed. "The lady doth protest too much," he murmured.
Dorothea put her fingers to her lips as if to stifle any further outburst. "I'm sorry," she said, turning back to Harry, “but you must be told what this man is capable of-”
"Without him your husband would still be at the house, Mrs Swann," Harry pointed out. "He's the one you should be grateful to, not me."
At this, Dorothea's expression softened, through bafflement to a new gentility.
"Oh?" she said. Now she looked back at Valentin. "I'm sorry. When you ran from the house I assumed some complicity…"
"With whom?" Valentin inquired.
She made a tiny shake of her head; then said, "Your arm. Are you hurt?"
"A minor injury," he returned.
"I've already tried to get it rebandaged," Harry said. "But the bastard's too stubborn."
"Stubborn I am," Valentin replied, without inflection.
"But we'll be finished here soon -” said Harry.
Valentin broke in. "Don't tell her anything," he snapped.
"I'm just going to explain about the brother-in-law -” Harry said.
The brother-in-law?" Dorothea said, sitting down. The sigh of her legs crossing was the most enchanting sound Harry had heard in twenty-four hours. "Oh please tell me about the brother-in-law…"
Before Harry could open his mouth to speak, Valentin said: "It's not her, Harry."
The words, spoken without a trace of drama, took a few seconds to make sense. Even when they did, their lunacy was self-evident. Here she was in the flesh, perfect in every detail.
"What are you talking about?" Harry said.
"How much more plainly can I say it?" Valentin replied. "It's not her. It's a trick. An illusion. They know where we are, and they sent this up to spy out our defences." Harry would have laughed, but that these accusations were bringing tears to Dorothea's eyes.
"Stop it," he told Valentin.
"No, Harry. You think for a moment. All the traps they've laid, all the beasts they've mustered. You suppose she could have escaped that?" He moved away from the window towards Dorothea. "Where's Butterfield?" he spat. "Down the hall, waiting for your signal?"
"Shut up," said Harry.
"He's scared to come up here himself, isn't he?" Valentin went on. "Scared of Swann, scared of us, probably, after what we did to his gelding."
Dorothea looked at Harry. "Make him stop," she said. Harry halted Valentin's advance with a hand on his bony chest.
"You heard the lady," he said.
"That's no lady," Valentin replied, his eyes blazing. "I don't know what it is, but it's no lady."
Dorothea stood up. "I came here because I hoped I'd be safe," she said.
"You are safe," Harry said.
"Not with him around, I'm not," she replied, looking back at Valentin. "I think I'd be wiser going." Harry touched her arm.
"No," he told her.
"Mr… D'Amour," she said sweetly, “you've already earned your fee ten times over. Now I think it's time I took responsibility for my husband."
Harry scanned that mercurial face. There wasn't a trace of deception in it.
"I have a car downstairs," she said. "I wonder… could you carry him downstairs for me?"
Harry heard a noise like a cornered dog behind him and turned to see Valentin standing beside Swann's corpse. He had picked up the heavy-duty cigarette lighter from the desk, and was flicking it. Sparks came, but no flame. "What the hell are you doing?" Harry demanded.
Valentin didn't look at the speaker, but at Dorothea. "She knows," he said.
He had got the knack of the lighter; the flame flared up.
Dorothea made a small, desperate sound.
"Please don't," she said.
"We'll all burn with him if necessary," Valentin said.
"He's insane," Dorothea's tears had suddenly gone.
"She's right," Harry told Valentin, "you're acting like a madman."
"And you're a fool to fall for a few tears!" came the reply. "Can't you see that if she takes him we've lost everything we've fought for?"
"Don't listen," she murmured. "You know me, Harry. You trust me."
"What's under that face of yours?" Valentin said. "What are you? A Coprolite? Homunculus?" The names meant nothing to Harry. All he knew was the proximity of the woman at her side; her hand laid upon his arm.
"And what about you?" she said to Valentin. Then, more softly, "why don't you show us your wound?" She forsook the shelter of Harry's side, and crossed to the desk. The lighter flame guttered at her approach. "Go on…" she said, her voice no louder than a breath."… I dare you."
She glanced round at Harry. "Ask him, D'Amour," she said. "Ask him to show you what he's got hidden under the bandages."
"What's she talking about?" Harry asked. The glimmer of trepidation in Valentin's eyes was enough to convince Harry there was merit in Dorothea's request. "Explain," he said.
Valentin didn't get the chance however. Distracted by Harry's demand he was easy prey when Dorothea reached across the desk and knocked the lighter from his hand. He bent to retrieve it, but she seized on the ad hoc bundle of bandaging and pulled. It tore, and fell away. She stepped back. "See?" she said.
Valentin stood revealed. The creature on 83rd Street had torn the sham of humanity from his arm; the limb beneath was a mass of blue-black scales. Each digit of the blistered hand ended in a nail that opened and closed like a parrot's beak. He made no attempt to conceal the truth. Shame eclipsed every other response.
"I warned you," she said, "I warned you he wasn't to be trusted."
Valentin stared at Harry. "I have no excuses," he said. "I only ask you to believe that I want what's best for Swann." "How can you?" Dorothea said. "You're a demon."
"More than that," Valentin replied, "I'm Swann's Tempter. His familiar; his creature. But I belong to him more than I ever belonged to the Gulfs. And I will defy them -” he looked at Dorothea,"- and their agents." She turned to Harry. "You have a gun," she said. "Shoot the filth. You mustn't suffer a thing like that to live." Harry looked at the pustulent arm; at the clacking fingernails: what further repugnan
ce was there in wait behind the flesh facade?
"Shoot it," the woman said.
He took his gun from his pocket. Valentin seemed to have shrunk in the moments since the revelation of his true nature. Now he leaned against the wall, his face slimy with despair.
"Kill me then," he said to Harry, "kill me if I revolt you so much. But Harry, I beg you, don't give Swann to her. Promise me that. Wait for the driver to come back, and dispose of the body by whatever means you can. Just don't give it to her!"
"Don't listen," Dorothea said. "He doesn't care about Swann the way I do."
Harry raised the gun. Even looking straight at death, Valentin did not flinch.
"You've failed, Judas," she said to Valentin. "The magician's mine."
"What magician?" said Harry.
"Why Swann, of course!" she replied lightly. "How many magicians have you got up here?"
Harry dropped his bead on Valentin.
"He's an illusionist," he said, “you told me that at the very beginning. Never call him a magician, you said." "Don't be pedantic," she replied, trying to laugh off her faux pas.
He leveled the gun at her. She threw back her head suddenly, her face contracting, and unloosed a sound of which, had Harry not heard it from a human throat, he would not have believed the larynx capable. It rang down the corridor and the stairs, in search of some waiting ear.
"Butterfield is here," said Valentin flatly. Harry nodded. In the same moment she came towards him, her features grotesquely contorted. She was strong and quick; a blur of venom that took him off-guard. He heard Valentin tell him to kill her, before she transformed. It took him a moment to grasp the significance of this, by which time she had her teeth at his throat. One of her hands was a cold vice around his wrist; he sensed strength in her sufficient to powder his bones. His fingers were already numbed by her grip; he had no time to do more than depress the trigger. The gun went off. Her breath on his throat seemed to gush from her. Then she loosed her hold on him, and staggered back. The shot had blown open her abdomen. He shook to see what he had done. The creature, for all its shriek, still resembled a woman he might have loved.
"Good," said Valentin, as the blood hit the office floor in gouts. "Now it must show itself."
Hearing him, she shook her head. "This is all there is to show," she said.
Harry threw the gun down. "My God," he said softly, “it's her.
Dorothea grimaced. The blood continued to come.
"Some part of her," she replied.
"Have you always been with them then?" Valentin asked.
"Of course not."
"Why then?"
"Nowhere to go…" she said, her voice fading by the syllable. "Nothing to believe in. All lies. Everything: lies." "So you sided with Butterfield?"
"Better Hell," she said, “than a false Heaven."
"Who taught you that?" Harry murmured.
"Who do you think?" she replied, turning her gaze on him. Though her strength was going out of her with the blood, her eyes still blazed. "You're finished, D'Amour," she said. "You, and the demon, and Swann. There's nobody left to help you now."
Despite the contempt in her words he couldn't stand and watch her bleed to death. Ignoring Valentin's imperative that he keep clear, he went across to her. As he stepped within range she lashed out at him with astonishing force. The blow blinded him a moment; he fell against the tall filing cabinet, which toppled sideways. He and it hit the ground together. It spilled papers; he, curses. He was vaguely aware that the woman was moving past him to escape, but he was too busy keeping his head from spinning to prevent her. When equilibrium returned she had gone, leaving her bloody handprints on wall and door.
Chaplin, the janitor, was protective of his territory. The basement of the building was a private domain in which he sorted through office trash, and fed his beloved furnace, and read aloud his favourite passages from the Good Book; all without fear of interruption. His bowels – which were far from healthy – allowed him little slumber. A couple of hours a night, no more, which he supplemented with dozing through the day. It was not so bad. He had the seclusion of the basement to retire to whenever life upstairs became too demanding; and the forced heat would sometimes bring strange waking dreams.
Was this such a dream; this insipid fellow in his fine suit? If not, how had he gained access to the basement, when the door was locked and bolted? He asked no questions of the intruder. Something about the way the man stared at him baffled his tongue. "Chaplin," the fellow said, his thin lips barely moving, "I'd like you to open the furnace." In other circumstances he might well have picked up his shovel and clouted the stranger across the head. The furnace was his baby. He knew, as no-one else knew, its quirks and occasional petulance; he loved, as no-one else loved, the roar it gave when it was content; he did not take kindly to the proprietorial tone the man used. But he'd lost the will to resist. He picked up a rag and opened the peeling door, offering its hot heart to this man as Lot had offered his daughters to the stranger in Sodom.
Butterfield smiled at the smell of heat from the furnace. From three floors above he heard the woman crying out for help; and then, a few moments later, a shot. She had failed. He had thought she would. But her life was forfeit anyway. There was no loss in sending her into the breach, in the slim chance that she might have coaxed the body from its keepers. It would have saved the inconvenience of a full-scale attack, but no matter. To have Swann's soul was worth any effort. He had defiled the good name of the Prince of Lies. For that he would suffer as no other miscreant magician ever had. Beside Swann's punishment, Faust's would be an inconvenience, and Napoleon's a pleasure- cruise.
As the echoes of the shot died above, he took the black lacquer box from his jacket pocket. The janitor's eyes were turned heavenward. He too had heard the shot.
"It was nothing," Butterfield told him. "Stoke the fire." Chaplin obeyed. The heat in the cramped basement rapidly grew. The janitor began to sweat; his visitor did not. He stood mere feet from the open furnace door and gazed into the brightness with impassive features. At last, he seemed satisfied.
"Enough," he said, and opened the lacquer box. Chaplin thought he glimpsed movement in the box, as though it were full to the lid with maggots, but before he had a chance to look more closely both the box and contents were pitched into the flames.
"Close the door," Butterfield said. Chaplin obeyed. "You may watch over them awhile, if it pleases you. They need the heat. It makes them mighty."
He left the janitor to keep his vigil beside the furnace, and went back up to the hallway. He had left the street door open, and a pusher had come in out of the cold to do business with a client. They bartered in the shadows, until the pusher caught sight of the lawyer.
"Don't mind me," Butterfield said, and started up the stairs. He found the widow Swann on the first landing. She was not quite dead, but he quickly finished the job D'Amour had started.
"We're in trouble," said Valentin. "I hear noises down- stairs. Is there any other way out of here?" Harry sat on the floor, leaning against the toppled cabinet, and tried not to think of Dorothea's face as the bullet found her, or of the creature he was now reduced to needing.
"There's a fire escape," he said, “it runs down to the back of the building."
"Show me," said Valentin, attempting to haul him to his feet.
"Keep your hands off me!"
Valentin withdrew, bruised by the rebuffal. "I'm sorry," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't hope for your acceptance. But I do."
Harry said nothing, just got to his feet amongst the litter of reports and photographs. He'd had a dirty life: spying on adulteries for vengeful spouses; dredging gutters for lost children; keeping company with scum because it rose to the top, and the rest just drowned. Could Valentin's soul be much grimier?
"The fire escape's down the hall," he said.
"We can still get Swann out," Valentin said. "Still give him a decent cremation -“ The demon's obsession with his master's dignit
y was chastening, in its way. "But you have to help me, Harry."
I'll help you," he said, avoiding sight of the creature. "Just don't expect love and affection."
If it were possible to hear a smile, that's what he heard.
They want this over and done with before dawn," the demon said.
"It can't be far from that now."
"An hour, maybe," Valentin replied. "But it's enough. Either way, it's enough."
The sound of the furnace soothed Chaplin; its rumbles and rattlings were as familiar as the complaint of his own intestines. But there was another sound growing behind the door, the like of which he'd never heard before. His mind made foolish pictures to go with it. Of pigs laughing; of glass and barbed wire being ground between the teeth; of hoofed feet dancing on the door. As the noises grew so did his trepidation, but when he went to the basement door to summon help it was locked; the key had gone. And now, as if matters weren't bad enough, the light went out. He began to fumble for a prayer – "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour -” But he stopped when a voice addressed him, quite clearly.
"Michelmas," it said.
It was unmistakably his mother. And there could be no doubt of its source, either. It came from the furnace. "Michelmas," she demanded, “are you going to let me cook in here?"
It wasn't possible, of course, that she was there in the flesh: she'd been dead thirteen long years. But some phantom, perhaps? He believed in phantoms. Indeed he'd seen them on occasion, coming and going from the cinemas on 42nd Street, arm in arm.
"Open up, Michelmas," his mother told him, in that special voice she used when she had some treat for him. Like a good child, he approached the door. He had never felt such heat off the furnace as he felt now; he could smell the hairs on his arms wither.
"Open the door," Mother said again. There was no denying her. Despite the searing air, he reached to comply.
"That fucking janitor," said Harry, giving the sealed fire escape door a vengeful kick. "This door's supposed to be left unlocked at all times." He pulled at the chains that were wrapped around the handles. "We'll have to take the stairs."
There was a noise from back down the corridor; a roar in the heating system which made the antiquated radiators rattle. At that moment, down in the basement, Michelmas Chaplin was obeying his mother, and opening the furnace door. A scream climbed from below as his face was blasted off. Then, the sound of the basement door being smashed open. Harry looked at Valentin, his repugnance momentarily forgotten.
