The Great and Secret Show

by Clive Barker

  "Don't tell me lies. Jo-Beth!" he started yelling. "Jo-Beth!"

  "Even if she were—"

  Tommy-Ray didn't let her finish. He pushed past her and stepped over the threshold. "Jo-Beth! It's Tommy-Ray! I need you, Jo-Beth! I need you, baby!"

  It didn't matter any longer if he called her baby, told her he wanted to kiss her and lick her cunt: that was OK. It was love, and love was the only defense he had, or anyone had, against the dust and the wind and all that howled in it: he needed her more than ever. Ignoring Momma's shouts he started through the house from room to room in search of her. Each had a scent of its own, and with the scent a sum of memories—things he'd said, done or felt in this place or that—which flooded over him as he stood in the doorways.

  Jo-Beth wasn't downstairs, so he headed up, throwing each door open along the landing: first Jo-Beth's, then Momma's. Finally, his own. His room was as he'd left it. The bed unmade, the wardrobe open, his towel on the floor. Standing at the door he realized he was looking at the belongings of a boy who was as good as dead. The Tommy-Ray who'd lain in that bed, sweated, jerked off, slept and dreamed of Zuma and Topanga, had gone forever. The grime on the towel and the hairs on the pillow were the last of him. He wouldn't be remembered well.

  Tears started to run down his cheeks. How had it happened that half a week ago he'd been alive and going about his business and now be so changed he did not belong here, nor could ever belong here again? What had he wanted so badly it had taken him from himself? Nothing that he'd got. It was useless being the Death-Boy: only fear and shining bones. And knowing his father: what use was that? The Jaff had treated him well at the beginning, but it had been a trick to make a slave of him. Only Jo-Beth loved him. Jo-Beth had come after him, tried to heal him, tried to tell him what he hadn't wanted to hear. Only she could make things good again. Make sense of him. Save him.

  "Where is she?" he demanded.

  Momma was at the bottom of the stairs. Her hands were clasped in front of her as she looked up at him. More prayers. Always prayers.

  "Where is she, Momma? I have to see her. "

  "She's not yours," Momma said.

  "Katz!" Tommy-Ray yelled, starting down towards her. "Katz has got her!"

  "Jesus said . . . I am the resurrection, and the life . . ."

  "Tell me where they are or I won't be responsible—"

  "He that believeth in me . . ."

  "Momma!"

  ". . . though he were dead . . ."

  She'd left the front door open, and dust had begun to blow over the threshold, insignificant amounts at first, but growing. He knew what it signalled. The ghost-train was getting up steam. Momma looked towards the door, and the gusty darkness beyond. She seemed to grasp that fatal business was at hand. Her eyes, when they settled on her son again, were filling up with tears.

  "Why did it have to be this way?" she said softly.

  "I didn't mean it to be."

  "You were so beautiful, son. I thought sometimes that'd save you."

  "I'm still beautiful," he said.

  She shook her head. The tears, dislodged from the rims of her eyes, ran down her cheeks. He looked back towards the door, which the wind had begun to throw back and forth.

  "Stay out," he told it.

  "What's out there?" Momma said. "Is it your father?"

  "You don't want to know," he told her.

  He hurried down the stairs to try to close the door, but the wind was gathering strength, gusting into the house. The lamps started to swing. Ornaments flew from their places along the shelves. As he got to the bottom of the flight windows shattered at the front of the house and back.

  "Stay out!" he yelled again, but the phantoms had waited long enough. The door flew off its hinges, thrown down the length of the hallway to smash against the mirror. The ghosts came howling after. Momma screamed at the sight of them, their faces drawn and hungry, smears of need in the storm.

  Gaping sockets, gaping maws. Hearing the Christian woman scream, they turned their venom in her direction. Tommy-Ray yelled a warning to her but dusty fingers tore the words to nonsense, then flew past him to Momma's throat. He reached back towards her but the storm had hold of him, and threw him round towards the door. The ghosts were still flying in. He was pitched through their speeding faces, against the tide, and across the threshold. Behind him he heard Momma let out another shriek, as with one shattering every window left unbroken in the house burst outwards. Glass showered around him. He fled the rain, but didn't escape unscathed.

  It was little harm, however, compared with the damage the house and its occupant were sustaining. When he stumbled to the safety of the sidewalk and looked back he saw the storm weaving in and out of every window and door like a demented ghost-ride. The structure was not the equal of the assault. Cracks were gaping in the walls, the ground at the front of the house opening up as the riders got into the basement and wreaked havoc there. He looked towards the car, half-fearing they'd destroyed that in their impatience. But it was still intact. He fled towards it as the house began to growl, its roof thrown up in surrender, its walls bowing out. Even if Momma had been alive to call after him, she could not have been heard over the din, nor seen in the confusion.

  He got into the car, sobbing. There were words on his lips he didn't even realize he was saying until he began to drive:

  ". . . I am the resurrection and the life . . ."

  In the rear-view mirror he saw the house give up entirely, as the vortex in its guts threw it outwards. Bricks, slate, beams and dirt burst in all directions.

  ". . . he that believeth in me . . . my God, Momma, Momma . . . he that believeth in me . . ."

  Brick shards flew against the back window, shattering it, and fell on the roof in rattling percussion. He put his foot down and drove, half blind with tears of sorrow and terror.

  He'd tried to outrun them once, and failed. Still he hoped he might succeed a second time, racing through the town by the most circuitous route he knew, praying he'd confound them. The streets were not entirely empty. He passed two limos, both black stretches, cruising the streets like sharks. And then, on the edge of Oakwood, staggering into the middle of the street, someone he knew. Loath as he was to stop, he needed the comfort of a familiar face more than he'd ever needed anything, even if it was William Witt. He slowed. "Witt?"

  William took a little time to recognize him. When he did Tommy-Ray expected him to retreat. Their last meeting, up at the house on Wild Cherry Glade, had ended with Tommy-Ray in the pool, wrestling Martine Nesbitt's terata, and Witt running for his sanity. But the intervening period had taken as much toll on William as it had on Tommy-Ray. He looked like a hobo, unshaven, clothes stained and in disarray, a stare of complete despair on his face.

  "Where are they?" was his first question.

  "Who?" Tommy-Ray wanted to know.

  William reached through the window and stroked Tommy-Ray's face. His palm was clammy. His breath smelt of bourbon.

  "Have you got them?" he asked.

  "Who?" Tommy-Ray wanted to know.

  "My . . . visitors," William said. "My . . . dreams."

  "Sorry," Tommy-Ray said. "You want a ride?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Getting the fuck out of here," Tommy-Ray said.

  "Yeah. I want a ride."

  Witt got in. As he slammed the door Tommy-Ray saw a familiar sight in the mirror. The storm was following. He looked across at William.

  "It's no good," he said.

  "What isn't?" Witt asked, his eyes barely focusing on Tommy-Ray.

  "They're going to come after me wherever I go. There's no stopping them. They'll come and come."

  William glanced over his shoulder at the wall of dust advancing down the street towards the car.

  "Is that your father?" he said. "Is he in there somewhere?"

  "No."

  "What is, then?"

  "Something worse."

  "Your momma—" Witt said "—I talked with her.
She said he was the Devil."

  "I wish it were the Devil," Tommy-Ray said. "You can cheat the Devil."

  The storm was gaining on the car.

  "I have to go back up the Hill," Tommy-Ray said, as much to himself as Witt.

  He swung the wheel round and started in the direction of Windbluff.

  "Is that where the dreams are?" Witt said.

  "That's where everything is," Tommy-Ray replied, unaware of how much truth he spoke.

  XI

  "THE party's over," the Jaff said to Grillo. "Time we went down."

  Little had been said between them since Eve's panicked departure. The man had simply sat back down in the seat from which he'd risen to deal with Lamar's mutiny, and waited there while raised voices drifted from below, limos drove up to the front door, took their passengers and left, and—finally—the music stopped. Grillo had made no attempt to slip away. For one, Lamar's slumped body blocked the door, and by the time he'd attempted to move it the terata, indistinct as they now were, would surely have claimed him. For another, and more significantly, he'd come by chance into the company of the first cause, the entity responsible for the mysteries he'd been encountering in Palomo Grove since he'd arrived. Here, slumped before him, was the man who'd shaped the horrors, and by extension therefore comprehended the visions that were loose in the town. To attempt to leave would be a dereliction of duty. Diverting as his short run as Ellen Nguyen's lover had been, he had only one role to play in all of this. He was a reporter; a conduit between the known world and the unknown. If he turned his back on the Jaff he committed a crime worse than any he knew: he failed to be a witness.

  Whatever else the man was (insane; lethal; monstrous) he was not what so many of the people Grillo interviewed or investigated in his professional life had proved: a fake. Grillo had only to look around the room at the creatures the Jaff had spawned, or caused to be spawned, to know that he was in the company of a power with the capacity to change the world. He dared not turn his back on such a power. He would go with it wherever it went, and hope to understand its workings better.

  The Jaff stood up.

  "Make no attempt to intervene," he said to Grillo.

  "I won't," Grillo told him. "But let me come with you."

  The Jaff looked at him for the first time since Eve's escape. It was too dark for Grillo to see the eyes turned upon him, but he felt them, sharp as needles, probing him.

  "Move the body," the Jaff instructed.

  Grillo said: "Sure," and moved to the door. He'd needed no further reminder of the Jaff's strength, but picking up Lamar's corpse offered it to him anyhow. The body was wet and hot. His hands, when he dumped it down again, were sticky with the comedian's blood. The feel and smell made Grillo nauseous.

  "Just remember . . ." the Jaff said.

  "I know," Grillo replied. "Don't intervene."

  "So. Open the door."

  Grillo did so. He hadn't been aware of how fetid the room had become until a wave of cool, clean air swept in and over his face.

  "Lead on," the Jaff said.

  Grillo stepped out on to the landing. The house was completely silent, but it was not empty. At the bottom of the first flight of stairs he saw a small crowd of Rochelle's guests waiting. Their eyes all turned up towards the door. There was _ no sound nor movement from any of them. Grillo recognized many of their faces; they'd been waiting here when he and Eve had been ascending. Now the awaited moment had come. He began down the stairs towards them, the thought shaping in his head that the Jaff had sent him down to be torn apart by these worshippers. But he moved through their eye line, and out, without their gazes following him. It was the organ-grinder they were here to see, not the monkey.

  From the room above emerged the sound of mass movement: the terata were coming. Reaching the bottom of the flight Grillo turned and looked back the way he'd come. The first of the creatures was emerging through the doorway. He'd seen that they were changed, but he'd not been prepared for the degree of change. Their busy foulness had been purged. They'd become plainer, most of their features veiled by the darkness they emitted.

  Following the first few came the Jaff. Events since the final confrontation with Fletcher had taken their toll on him. He looked used up, almost skeletal. He started his descent, passing through pools of color from the lights outside the house, their vividness flooding his pallid features. Tonight the movie was The Masque of the Red Death, Grillo thought; and The Jaff was the name above the title.

  The supporting cast of terata followed, pushing their bodies through the door and shambling down the stairs in pursuit of their maker.

  Grillo glanced around at the silent assembly. They still had their fawning eyes upon the Jaff. He headed on, down the second flight. There was a second assembly waiting at the bottom, Rochelle among them. The sight of her extraordinary beauty momentarily reminded Grillo of his first encounter with her, descending the stairs just as the Jaff was now doing. Seeing her had been a revelation. She had seemed inviolate in that beauty. He'd learned differently. First from Ellen, with her account of Rochelle's past profession and present addiction, and now with the evidence of his own eyes, seeing the woman as lost to the depravities of the Jaff as any of his victims. Beauty was no defense. Most likely there was no defense. He reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for the Jaff to finish his descent, his legions trailing after. In the short time since his appearance at the top of the flight a change had come over him, subtle but unnerving. His face, which had betrayed tremors of apprehension, was now as blank as that of his congregation, his muscles so completely drained of tone his descent was a barely controlled walking fall. All the forces of his power had gone to his left hand, the hand which—back at the Mall—had bled the motes of power which had almost destroyed Fletcher. It was doing the same now, beads of bright corruption dripping from it like sweat as it hung by his side. They couldn't be the power itself, Grillo presumed, only its by-product, because the Jaff was making no attempt to prevent their breaking into small dark blooms on the stairs.

  The hand was charging itself, draining power from every other part of its owner (perhaps, who knew? from the assembly itself); stoking its strength in preparation for the labors ahead. Grillo tried to study the Jaff's face for some sign of what he was feeling, but his eyes kept being drawn back and back to the hand, as though all lines of force led to it, all the other elements in the scene rendered irrelevant.

  The Jaff moved through into the lounge. Grillo followed. The shadow legion remained on the stairs.

  The lounge was still occupied, mostly by recumbent guests. Some were like disciples, their eyes fixed on the Jaff. Some were simply unconscious, sprawled on the furniture, undone by excess. On the floor lay Sam Sagansky, his shirt and face bloody. A little way from him, his hand still grasping Sagansky's jacket, lay another man. Grillo had no idea what had started the fracas between them but it had ended in a knockout.

  "Turn on the lights," the Jaff told Grillo. His voice was as expressionless as his face had become. "Turn them full on. No mystery now. I want to see clearly. "

  Grillo located the switches in the gloom, and flipped them all on. Any theatricality in the scene was abruptly banished. The light brought growls of complaint from one or two of the slumberers, who threw their arms across their faces to shut it out. The man clasping Sagansky opened his eyes, and moaned, but didn't move, sensing his jeopardy. Grillo's gaze went back to the Jaff's hand. The beads of power had stopped dropping from it now. It had ripened. It was ready.

  "No use delaying . . ." he heard the Jaff say, and saw him raise his left arm to eye level, his hand open. Then he walked to the far wall and laid his palm upon it.

  Then, hand still pressed against solid reality, he began to make a fist.

  Down at the gates Clark saw the lights go on in the house, and breathed a sigh of relief. That could only signal an end to the party. He put a general call out to the circling drivers (those that had not taken fright, and gone) instructing th
em to make their way back up the Hill. Their passengers would be emerging soon.

  Coming off the freeway at the Palomo Grove exit, with four miles to cover to the outskirts of the town, a shudder ran through Tesla. The kind her mother had said meant someone was walking over your grave. Tonight, she knew better. The news was worse than that.

  I'm missing the main event, she realized. It's begun without me. She felt something change around her, something vast, as though the flat-earthists had been right all along and the whole world had suddenly tipped a few degrees, everything on it sliding towards one end. She didn't flatter herself for an instant she was the only one sensitive enough to be experiencing this. Perhaps she had a perspective that allowed her to confess the feeling, but she didn't doubt that across the country at this moment, most likely across the world, people were waking in a cold sweat, or thinking of their loved ones and fearing for them. Children crying without quite knowing why. Old people believing their last moment was upon them.

  She heard the din of a collision on the freeway she'd just left, followed by another and another, as cars—their drivers distracted by a moment of terror—piled up. Horns began to blare in the night.

  The world's round, she told herself, like the wheel I'm holding. I can't fall off. I can't fall off. Gripping that thought and the wheel with equal desperation, she drove on towards the town.

  Watching for the returning cars, Clark saw lights coming up the Hill. Their advance was too slow to be headlamps, however. Curious, he left his post and started down the incline a little way. He got maybe twenty yards before the bend in the road revealed the source of the light. It was human. A mob of fifty, maybe more, climbing towards the summit, their bodies and faces blurred, but all glowing in the dark like Halloween masks. At the head of the group were two kids who looked to be normal enough. But given the gang they had in tow he doubted that. The boy looked up the Hill towards him. Clark backed away, turning around to put some distance between him and the mob.

  Rab had been right. He should have gone a lot earlier, and left this damn town to its own devices. He'd been hired to keep gatecrashers out of the party, not to stop whirlwinds and walking torches. Enough was enough.