by Clive Barker
If he'd wanted any more concrete proof of that, none could have been had but the scene that awaited him beyond the door of Lois Knapp's house.
"There's someone here to see you, Jo-Beth."
She turned and met the same expression that must have been on her face when, two hours and more before, she'd stepped into the lounge.
"Howie," she said.
"What's going on here?"
"A party."
"Yeah, I can see that. But all these actors. Where'd they come from? They can't all live in the Grove."
"They're not actors," she said. "They're people from the TV. And a few movies too. Not many, but—"
"Wait, wait."
He moved closer to her. "Are these Lois's friends?" he said
"They sure are," she said.
"This town just keeps on going, doesn't it? Just when you think you've got it fixed in your head—"
"But they're not actors, Howie."
"You just said they were."
"No. I said they were people from TV. See the Patterson family, over there? They even have that dog with them."
"Morgan," Howie said. "My mother used to watch that show."
The dog, a lovable mongrel in a long tradition of lovable mongrels, heard his name called and scooted over, followed by Benny, the youngest of the Patterson children.
"Hi," the kid said. "I'm Benny."
"I'm Howie. This is—"
"Jo-Beth. Yeah, we met. You want to come outside and play ball with me, Howie? I'm bored."
"It's dark out there."
"No it isn't," Benny said. He directed Howie's gaze towards the patio doors. They were open. The night beyond was, as Benny had said, far from dark. It was as if the odd radiance that permeated the house, about which he'd had no time to speak with Jo-Beth, had seeped out into the yard.
"See?" Benny said.
"I see."
"So come on, huh?"
"In a minute."
"Promise?"
"I promise. By the way, what's your real name?"
The kid looked puzzled. "Benny," he said. "Always was." He and the mutt headed off for the bright night.
Before Howie could put the countless questions in his head into askable order he felt a friendly pat on the back and a rotund voice enquired:
"Something to drink?"
Howie raised his bandaged hand in apology for the absence of a handshake.
"Good to have you here anyhow. Jo-Beth was telling me about you. I'm Mel, by the way. Lois's husband. You met Lois already, I gather."
"That's right."
"I don't know where she got to. I think one of those cowboys is having his way with her." He raised his glass. "To which I say, better him than me." He faked a look of shame. "What am I saying? I should have the bastard out in the street. Gun him down, eh?" He grinned. "That's the New West for you, right? Can't be fucking bothered. You want another vodka, Jo-Beth? You're going to have something, Howie?"
"Why not?"
"Funny, isn't it?" Mel said. "It's only when these damn dreams come in you realize who you are. Me . . . I'm a coward. And I don't love her." He turned from them. "Never did love her," he said as he reeled away. "Bitch. Fucking bitch."
Howie watched him enveloped by the crowd, then looked back at Jo-Beth. Very slowly he said:
"I don't have the slightest clue what's happening. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me. Words of one syllable."
"This is because of last night. What your father did."
"The fire?"
"Or what came from it. All these people . . ." She smiled, surveying them, ". . . Lois, Mel, Ruby over there . . . all of them were at the Mall last night. Whatever came from your father—"
"Keep your voice down, will you? They're staring at us."
"I'm not talking loud, Howie," she said. "Don't be so paranoid."
"I tell you they're staring."
He could feel the intensity of their gazes: faces he'd only ever seen in glossy magazines, or on the television screen, staring at him with strange, almost troubled, looks.
"So let them stare," she said. "They don't mean any harm."
"How do you know that?"
"I've been here all evening. It's just like a normal party—"
"You're slurring your words."
"So why shouldn't I have a little fun once in a while?"
"I'm not saying you shouldn't. I'm just saying you're in no state to judge whether they're dangerous or not."
"What are you trying to do, Howie?" she said. "Keep all these people to yourself?"
"No. No, of course not."
"I don't want to be a part of the Jaff—"
"Jo-Beth."
"He may be my father. Doesn't mean I like it that way."
The room had fallen entirely silent at the mention of the Jaff. Now everyone in the room—cowboys, soap-opera stars, sitcom folks, beauties and all—were looking their way.
"Oh shit," said Howie, softly. "You shouldn't have said that." He scanned the faces surrounding them. "That was a mistake. She didn't mean it. She's not . . . she doesn't belong . . . what I mean is, we're together. She and me. We're together, see? My father was Fletcher, and hers . . . hers wasn't " It was like being in sinking sand. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank.
One of the cowboys spoke first. He had eyes the press would call ice-blue.
"You're Fletcher's son?"
"Yes . . . I am."
"So you know what we're to do."
Howie suddenly understood the significance of the stares he'd been garnering since he'd entered. These creatures—hallucigenia, Fletcher had called them—knew him; or at least thought they did. Now he'd identified himself, and the need in their faces couldn't have been plainer.
"Tell us what to do," one of the women said.
"We're here for Fletcher," said another.
"Fletcher's gone," said Howie.
"Then for you. You're his son. What are we here to do?"
"Do you want the child of the Jaff destroyed?" said the cowboy, turning his blue eyes on Jo-Beth.
"Jesus Christ, no!"
He reached out to take hold of Jo-Beth's arm but she'd already retreated from him, slow steps towards the door. "Come back," he said. "They're not going to hurt you."
From the look on her face his words were scant comfort in such company.
"Jo-Beth . . ." he said, ". . . I'm not going to let them hurt you."
He started towards her, but his father's creatures weren't about to let their only hope for guidance go. Before he could reach her he felt a hand snatch at his shirt, and then another and another, until he was entirely surrounded by pleading, adoring faces.
"I can't help you, " he yelled. "Let me alone!"
From the corner of his eye he saw Jo-Beth, running scared to the door, opening it and slipping away. He called after her, but the din of pleas had risen around him until his every syllable was drowned out. He started to push harder through the crowd. Dreams they might be, but they were solid enough; and warm; and, it seemed, frightened. They needed a leader, and they'd elected him. It was not a role he was prepared to accept, especially not if it separated him from Jo-Beth.
"Get the fuck out of my way!" he demanded, clawing his way through the back-lit, glossy faces. Their fervor didn't diminish, but grew in proportion to his resistance. It was only by ducking down and tunnelling his way through his admirers that he got free of them. They followed him out into the hallway. The front door stood open. He sprinted for it like a star besieged by fans, and was out into the night before they caught up with him. Some instinct kept them from coming after him into the open, though one or two, Benny and the dog Morgan leading, followed, the boy's shout—"Come back and see us some time soon!"—pursuing him like a threat down the street.
VII
____________ i ____________
THE bullet struck Tesla in the side, like a blow from a heavyweight champ. She was thrown backwards, the sight of Tommy-Ray's gr
inning face replaced with the stars through the open roof. They got bigger in moments, swelling like bright sores, edging out the clean darkness.
What happened next was beyond her powers of comprehension. She heard a commotion, and a shot, followed by shrieks from the women Raul had told her would be gathering about this time. But she couldn't find the will to be much interested in what was happening on earth. The ugly spectacle above her claimed all her attention: a sick and brimming sky about to drown her in tainted light.
Is this death? she wondered. If so, it was overrated. There was a story to be had there, she began to think. About a woman who—
The thought went the way of consciousness: out.
* * *
The second shot she'd heard had been fired at Raul, who'd come at Tesla's assassin at speed, leaping over the fire. The bullet missed him, but he tbrew himself aside to avoid another, giving Tommy-Ray time to dart out of the door he'd entered through, into a crowd of women which he parted with a third shot aimed over their veiled heads. They put up a clamor and fled, hauling their children after them. Nuncio in hand, he headed off down the hill to where he'd left the car. A backward glance confirmed that the woman's companion—whose misbegotten features and weird turn of speed had taken him aback—was not giving chase.
Raul put his hand to Tesla's cheek. She was feverish, but alive. He took off his shirt and clamped the bundle to her wound, laying her limp hand upon it to keep it in place. Then he went out into the darkness and called the women out of hiding. He knew all of them by name. They in turn knew and trusted him. They came when called.
"Look after Tesla," he instructed them. Then he went after the Death-Boy and his prize.
Tommy-Ray was within sight of the car, or rather its ghost-form in the moonlight, when his foot slid from beneath him. In his effort to keep hold of gun and vial, both went from his hands. He fell heavily, face down in sharp dirt. Stones stabbed his cheek, chin, arms and hands. As he got to his feet blood began to run.
"My face!" he said, hoping to God he'd not damaged his looks.
There was more bad news to come. He could hear the sound of the Ugly Fuck following down the hill.
"Want to die, do you?" he grunted to his pursuer. "No problem. We can supply. No problem."
He scrabbled for the gun but it had skidded some distance from him. The vial was there beneath his hand, however. He picked it up. Even as he did so he realized it was no longer passive. It was warm in his bloodied palm. There was motion behind the glass. He grasped it more tightly, to be certain it didn't slip from him again. It responded instantly, the fluid glowing between his fingers.
Many years had passed since the rest of the Nuncio had worked its work upon Fletcher and Jaffe. This, the remnants, had been buried, out of sight, amid stones too revered to be turned. It had grown cold; forgetful of its message. But it remembered now. Tommy-Ray's enthusiasm woke old ambition.
He saw it push against the walls of the vial, bright as a knife, as a gun-flash. Then it broke its cage, and came at him, between his fingers—spread now against its attack—up towards his already wounded face.
Its touch seemed light enough—a spatter of warmth, like a jism when he jerked off, hitting his eye and the corner of his mouth. But it flipped him over on to his back—the stones bringing blood to his elbows, ass and spine. He tried to yell but no sound came. He tried to open his eyes, so as to see where he was lying, but he couldn't do that either. Jesus! He couldn't even breathe. His hands, touched by the Nuncio as it leapt, were clamped to his face, blocking eyes, nose and mouth. It was like being screwed down in a coffin made for someone two sizes smaller than he. Again, he cried out against the gag of his palm, but it was a lost cause. Somewhere at the back of his head a voice said:
"Let go. This is what you want. To be the Death-Boy, you first have to know Death. Feel it. Understand it. Suffer it."
In this, as in perhaps no other lesson in his short life, he was a good pupil. He stopped resisting the panic, and went with it, riding it like a wave at Zuma, towards the darkness of some unmapped shore. The Nuncio went with him. He felt it make new stuff of him with every sweating second, prancing on the points of his stiffened hair, beating a rhythm, death's rhythm, between the throbs of his heart.
Suddenly, it was full of him; or he of it; or both. His hands came off his face like suckers, and he breathed again.
After half a dozen gasps he sat up and looked down at his palms. They were bloody, both from his cut face and from their own injuries, but the stains faded before a more insistent reality. Granted a grave-dweller's sight, he saw his own flesh corrupting before his eyes. The skin darkened and swelled with gases, then broke open, the lesions spilling pus and water. Seeing, he grinned, and felt the grin spreading up from the corners of his mouth to his ears as his face split. It wasn't just the bone of his smile he was showing; the rods of his arms, wrists and fingers were appearing now, as decay uncovered them. Beneath his shirt, his heart and lungs sank into sewerage and drained away; his balls were washed with them; his withered dick the same.
And still the grin grew wider, until all the muscle had gone from his face and he was smiling the Death-Boy's smile, wide as any smile could get.
The vision didn't linger. Once given, it was gone, and he was left kneeling on the sharp stones, staring down at his bloody palms.
"I'm the Death-Boy," he said, and stood up, turning to face the lucky fuck who'd be the first to see him transfigured.
The man had stopped in his tracks, a few yards off.
"Look at me," Tommy-Ray said. "I'm the Death-Boy."
The poor shit just stared, not understanding. Tommy-Ray laughed. All desire to kill the man had gone out of him. He wanted this witness alive, to testify in days to come. To say: I was there, and it was awesome, seeing Tommy-Ray McGuire die and rise again.
He took a moment to look at the remains of the Nuncio-fragments of the vial and a few spots of spilled fluid on the stones. There was not enough to gather up and take back to the Jaff. But he was bringing something better now. Himself, changed; cleansed of fear, cleansed of flesh. Without looking back at the witness, he about-faced and left him to his confusion.
Though the glory of corruption had left him now, a subtle aftersight remained—which he didn't comprehend until a piece of stone underfoot caught his eye. He bent to pick it up; a pretty thing for Jo-Beth, maybe. Once in his hand he realized it was not stone at all, but a bird's skull, fractured and dirty. To his eyes, it gleamed.
Death shines, he thought. When I see it, it shines.
Pocketing the skull he sauntered back to the car and reversed down the hill until the road offered space enough for him to turn. Then he was away at a speed that would have been suicidal on such bends and in such darkness had suicide not been one of his many playthings now.
Raul put his fingers to one of the splashes of Nuncio. It rose in beads to meet his hand, winding into the spirals of his fingerprints, then climbing up through the marrow of hand, wrist and forearm, before petering out at his elbow. He felt, or imagined he felt, some subtle reconfiguration in his muscle, as though his hand, which had never quite lost its simian proportions, was being coaxed a little closer to the human. He let the sensation delay him only a moment; Tesla's condition concerned him more than his own.
It was as he went to make his way back up the hill that it occurred to him that the drops of Nuncio left in the ground might somehow help heal the woman. If she didn't have comfort of some kind soon she'd surely die. What was there to lose in letting the Great Work do what it could?
With that thought in mind he started back towards the Mission, knowing that were he to attempt to touch the broken vial it would be he who received its benefit. Tesla would have to be carried down the road to where these precious drops were scattered.
The women had set their candles all around Tesla. She looked like a corpse already. He was swift with his instructions. They wrapped her up and helped him carry her down the road a little way. She wasn
't heavy. He took her head and shoulders and two of the women supported her lower half, a third held the bundled shirt, now thoroughly soaked, to the bullet hole.
It was a slow process, stumbling in the darkness, but having been twice touched by the Nuncio, Raul had no difficulty finding the spot again. Like called to like. Warning the women to keep feet and fingers clear of the spilled fluid he took Tesla's weight entirely into his own arms and laid her down, her head haloed by splashes of the Nuncio. The remains of the vial itself still contained the bulk of the fluid; at most, a teaspoonful. With great gentleness, he turned her head towards the vial. At her proximity the fluid inside had begun a firefly dance—
—the poison brightness that had rained on Tesla as she fell before Tommy-Ray's bullet had solidified in seconds: become a gray, featureless place where she lay now without any sense of how she'd come to be there. She couldn't remember the Mission, Raul, or Tommy-Ray. Even her own name was beyond her. It was all outside the wall, where she couldn't go. Perhaps would never go again. She had no feelings either way about this. With no memory, she had nothing to mourn.
But now something began to scratch at the wall from the other side. She heard it humming to itself as it worked, like a lover digging at the stone of her cell, determined to reach her. She listened, and waited, no longer quite so forgetful, nor so indifferent to escape. Her name came back to her first, heard in the hum from outside. Then a memory of the pain the bullet had brought with it, and the grinning face of Tommy-Ray, and Raul, and the Mission, and—
