by Clive Barker
You were concentrating on your stomach, Raul replied.
She ignored the remark. “This isn’t an accident,” she said.
What isn’t?
“Us being here the weekend they’re having a festival. It’s some kind of synchronicity.”
If you say so.
She watched the traffic in silence for a time. Then she asked Raul, “Do you feel anything?”
Like what?
“I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary?”
What am I, a bloodhound?
“All right,” she said, “forget I spoke.”
There was another silence. Then, very softly, Raul said, Above the banner.
She lifted her gaze, past the blue letters, past the roofs. “The mountain?” she said.
Yes . . .
“What about it?” she said.
Something, he replied. I don’t know, but something . . .
She studied the peak for a little time. There wasn’t that much to see; the summit was wreathed in mist. “I give up,” she said, “I’m too hungry to think.”
She glanced back at the diner. Two of its customers were up from their table, chatting to the waitress.
“About time,” she muttered, and getting to her feet, headed inside.
“Just for one is it?” the waitress said, leading her to the vacated table and handing her a menu. “Everything’s good, but the chicken livers are really good. So’s the peach cobbler. Enjoy.”
Tesla watched her pass between the tables, bestowing a word here and a smile there.
Happy little soul, Raul remarked dryly.
“Looks like Jesus is cookin’ today,” Tesla replied, eyeing the simple wooden cross hung above the serving hatch.
Better go for the fish then, Raul said, at which Tesla laughed out loud.
A few querulous glances came her way, but nobody seemed to much mind that this woman was so entertained by her own company she was weeping with laughter.
“Something funny?” the waitress wanted to know.
“Just a private moment,” Tesla said, and ordered the fish.
* * *
II
Erwin could not remember what terrible thing had happened in his house; he only knew that he wanted to be out of it and away.
He stood at the unopened front door with his thoughts in confusion, knowing there was something he had to take with him before he left, but unable to remember what. He turned and looked back down the hallway, hoping something would jog his memory.
Of course! The confession. He couldn’t leave the house without the confession. He started back down the hallway, wondering where he’d set it down. As he came to the living room, however, his desire to have the papers suddenly evaporated, and without quite knowing how he got there he found himself standing outside his house again with the sun beating down on him. It was altogether too bright, and he dug in his pockets, looking for his sunglasses, only to discover that he was wearing an old tweed jacket that he thought he’d given away to charity years before. The gift had been spontaneous (which was rare for him) and he’d almost instantly regretted it. All the more wonderful then to have chanced upon it again, however mystifying the circumstances.
He found no sunglasses, but he did find a host of mementoes in the various pockets: ticket stubs for concerts he’d attended in Boston two decades before; the much-chewed remains of a cigar he’d smoked to celebrate passing the bar exam; a little piece of wedding cake, wrapped up in a napkin; the stiletto heel of a scarlet shoe; the little bottle of holy water his mother had been clutching when she died. Every pocket contained not one but four or five such keepsakes and tokens, each one unleashing a deluge of memories—scents, sounds, faces, feelings—all of which might have moved him more had the mystery of the jacket not continued to trouble him. He was certain he’d given it away. And even if he hadn’t, even if it had languished unseen at the back of his wardrobe for a decade, and by chance he’d plucked it out of exile this morning without realizing he’d done so, that still didn’t solve the problem of where the memorabilia in its pockets had appeared from.
Something strange was going on; something damned strange.
Next door, Ken Margosian emerged from his house whistling, and sauntered among his rose bushes with a pair of scissors, selecting blooms.
“The roses are better than ever this year,” Erwin remarked to him.
Margosian, who was usually a neighborly sort, didn’t even look up.
Erwin crossed to the fence. “Are you okay, Ken?” he asked.
Margosian had found a choice rose, and was carefully selecting a place to snip it. There was not the slightest sign that he’d heard a syllable.
“Why the silent treatment?” Erwin demanded. “If you’ve got some bitch with me—”
At this juncture, Mrs. Semevikov came along, a woman whom under normal circumstances Erwin would have happily avoided. She was a voluble woman, who took it upon herself to organize a small auction every Festival Saturday, selling items donated by various stores to benefit children’s charities. Last year she had attempted to persuade Erwin to donate a few hours of his services as a prize. He had promised to think about it, and then not returned her calls. Now here she was again, after the same thing, no doubt. She said hello to Ken Margosian, but didn’t so much as cast a glance in Erwin’s direction, though he was standing five yards from her.
“Is Erwin in?” she asked Ken.
“I don’t think so,” Ken replied.
“Joke over,” Erwin piped up, but Ken hadn’t finished.
“I heard some odd noises in the night,” he told Mrs. Semevikov, “like he was having a brawl in there.”
“That doesn’t sound like him at all,” she replied.
“I knocked on his door this morning, just to see that he was okay, but nobody answered.”
“Stop this,” Erwin protested.
“Maybe he’s at his office,” Mrs. Semevikov went on.
“I said stop it!” Erwin yelled. It was distressing him now, hearing himself talked about as though he were invisible. And what was this nonsense about a brawl? He’d had a perfectly peaceable—
The thought faltered, and he looked back towards the house, as a name rose from the murk of his memory.
Fletcher. Oh my God, how could he have forgotten Fletcher?
“Maybe I’ll try him at his office,” Mrs. Semevikov was saying, “because he promised me last year—”
“Listen to me,” Erwin begged.
“He’d donate a few hours—”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you’ve got to listen.”
“To the auction.”
“There’s somebody in my house.”
“Those are beautiful roses, by the way. Are you entering them in the flower competition?”
Erwin could take no more of this. He strode towards the fence, yelling at Ken, “He tried to kill me!” Then he reached over and caught hold of Ken’s shirt. Or at least he tried to. His fingers passed through the fabric, his fist closing on itself. He tried again. The same thing happened.
“I’m going crazy,” he thought. He reached up to Ken’s face and prodded his cheek, hard, but he got not so much as a blink for his efforts. “Fletcher’s been playing with my head.”
A wave of panic rose in him. He had to get the meddler to fix his handiwork, now, before there was some serious damage done. Leaving Ken and Mrs. Semevikov to their chatter about roses, Erwin headed back up the path to the front door. It looked to be closed, but his senses were utterly unreliable, it seemed, because two strides carried him over the threshold and into the hallway.
He called out for Fletcher. There was no reply, but the meddler was somewhere in the house, Erwin was certain of it. Every angle in the hallway was a little askew, and the halls had a yellowish tinge. What was that, if not Fletcher’s influence?
He knew where the man lay in wait: in the living room, where he’d held Erwin prisoner in order to toy with his sanity. His fury
mounting—how dare this man invade his house and his head?—he marched down the hallway to the living room door. It stood ajar. Erwin didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside.
The drapes were drawn to keep out the day, the only source of light the fire that was now dying in the grate. Even so, Erwin found his tormentor at a glance. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his clothes shed. His body was broad, hirsute, and covered with scars, some of them fully six inches long. His pupils were rolled up beneath his eyelids. In front of him was a mound of excrement.
“You filthy animal,” Erwin raged. His words drew no response from Fletcher. “I don’t know what kind of mind-tricks you’ve been playing,” Erwin went on, “but I want you to undo them. Right now. Hear me? Right now!” Fletcher’s pupils slipped back into view, much to Erwin’s satisfaction. He was tired of being ignored. “And then I want you—”
He stopped to let out a groan of disgust as Fletcher reached out and took a handful of his own shit, then mashed it into his groin. Erwin averted his eyes, but what his gaze found in the shadows was infinitely worse than Fletcher’s scatological games.
There was a body there, lying with its face to the wall. A body he recognized.
There were no words to express the horror of that moment; nor its terrible clarity. He could only let out a sob, a wracking sob, that went unheard by the masturbator.
He knew why now. He was dead. His wizened body was lying in the corner of the room, drained of life by Fletcher. Whatever consciousness he still possessed, it was clinging to the memory of the flesh, but it had no influence in the living world. He could not be seen or heard or felt. He was a phantom.
He sank down in front of Fletcher and studied his face. It was brutish beneath the beard, the brow louring, the mouth grotesquely wide.
“What are you?” he murmured to himself.
Fletcher’s manipulations were apparently bringing him close to crisis. His breathing was fast and shallow, and punctuated with little grunts. Erwin couldn’t bring himself to watch the act concluded. As the grunts grew louder he rose and made for the door, passing through it, down the hall and out into the sunlight.
Mrs. Semevikov had gone on her way, and Ken was heading back into his house with an armful of roses, but there was a thin, high-pitched whining sound coming from nearby. Something is in pain, Erwin thought, which fact curiously comforted him, to know that he was not the only soul suffering right now. He went in search of the sufferer, and didn’t have to look far. It was the rose bushes that were giving off the whine; a sound he assumed only the dead could hear.
It was a poor compensation. Tears, or rather the memory of tears, fell from his remembered eyes, and he quietly swore an oath that even if he had to do a deal with the Devil to possess the means, he would somehow revenge himself on the beast that had taken his life. Nor would it be quick. He’d make the bastard suffer so loudly the grief of a million roses could not drown out his screams.
* * *
III
The Friday of Festival Weekend was always a slack day at the doctor’s. Early next week there’d be a waiting room full of folks who’d put off a visit because they had too much to do, their fingers turned septic, their constipation chronic. But today only those in extreme discomfort, or so lonely a trip to see Dr. Powell was a treat, came in.
None of the patients made any mention of recent events to Phoebe, though she didn’t doubt that every man, woman, and child in Everville was by now steeped in the scandal. Even Dr. Powell kept his remarks to a minimum. He was sorry to hear about Morton’s death, he said, and would perfectly understand if she needed to take a few days off. She thanked him, and asked if she might perhaps leave around two, so she could drive over to Silverton and meet the funeral director. The answer, of course, was yes.
In fact, that wasn’t the only meeting she had planned. She needed more urgently than ever the guidance of a legal mind; someone who could give her a clear picture of just how bad a position she was in. She would try to see Erwin this afternoon she’d decided, rather than wait until Monday. A lot could happen in seventy-two hours, as the turmoil of the last twenty-four proved. Better that she knew the bad news and planned accordingly.
* * *
IV
The fish was good. Tesla took her leisurely time eating, and listened while she ate, tuning in to conversations going on at five tables in her vicinity. It was a trick she’d first learned as a screenwriter (quickly finding that ordinary conversation was littered with remarks no producer would believe) and had gone on to hone it during her travels, when it had allowed her to keep track of the way the world was going without benefit of media or social skills.
Today, much to her surprise, she found that three of the five conversations were about the same thing: the life and crimes of a local woman called Phoebe, who was apparently implicated in the bizarre demise of her husband.
While she was listening to one of the tables debating the morals of adultery, a parched-looking fellow, whom she took to be the manager of the place, came through with hamburgers for the debaters, and on his way back to the counter gathered up her dishes and casually asked if she’d enjoyed the fish. She said she had. Then, hoping to squeeze a little more information from him said:
“I was wondering . . . do you happen to know a guy called Fletcher?”
The man, his name tag read Bosley, thought for a moment. “Fletcher . . . Fletcher . . . ” he said.
While he mused, Raul said, Tesla?
“In a minute,” she thought to Raul.
But there’s something—Raul went on.
He got no further before Bosley said, “I don’t believe I know of any Fletcher. Does he live in town?”
“No. He’s a visitor.”
“We’re swamped with visitors,” Bosley replied.
Clearly this wasn’t going to prove a fruitful line of inquiry. But while she had the man in front of her she decided to quiz him about something else.
“Phoebe,” she said. Bosley lost his smile. “Do you know her?”
“She came in now and again,” Bosley conceded.
“What’s she like?” By the expression on his face, Bosley was caught between the requirements of civility and his desire to ignore Tesla’s question entirely. “Everybody’s talking about her.”
“Then I hope her story serves as a lesson,” Bosley replied, chilly now. “The Lord sees her sin and judges her.”
“Has she been accused of something?”
“In the Lord’s eyes—”
“Forget the fucking Lord’s eyes,” Tesla said, irritated by the guy’s cant. “I want to know what she’s like.”
Bosley set the dishes back on the table and quietly said, “I think you’d better leave.”
“What for?”
“You’re not welcome to break bread with us,” he replied.
“Why the hell not?”
“Your language.”
“What about it?” Tesla said.
The F word, Raul prompted.
She repeated it aloud, to test the thesis. “Fuck?” she said, “you don’t like me saying fuck?”
Bosley flinched as though the syllables were stings. “Get out,” he said.
“All I said was fuck,” Tesla replied sweetly. “What’s wrong with fuck?”
Bosley had taken hurts enough. “I want you out of here,” he said, the volume of his voice rising. “Your foul tongue isn’t welcome.”
“I can’t stay for the peach cobbler?” Tesla said.
“Out!” Bosley yelled. The gossiping patrons had fallen silent now. All eyes were turned in the direction of Tesla’s table. “Take your abominations elsewhere. They’re not welcome here.”
Tesla lounged in her chair. “Fuck isn’t an abomination,” she said. “Fuck’s just a word, it’s just a useful little word. Come on, Bosley, admit it. There are times when only fuck will do.”
“I want you out of here.”
“You see. I want you the fuck out of here would
sound so much more forceful.”
There were giggles from here and there, and a few nervous coughs.
“What do you say to your wife on a Saturday night? You want to fornicate, honey? No, you say I want a fuck.”
“Out!” Bosley yelled. There were others coming to his aid now, among them a cook from the kitchen who looked like he might have seen the light in San Quentin. Tesla got to her feet.
“Okay, I’m going,” she said. She gave the cook a dazzling grin. “Great fish,” she said, and sauntered to the door. “Of course we shouldn’t forget the most important use of fuck,” she said as she went. “The exclamation. As in oh fuck, or what a fuck up.” She’d reached the door, and halted there to look back at Bosley. “Or the ever-useful fuck you,” she said, and, offering him a little smile, took her leave.
She was standing on the corner, wondering where she might next go in search of Fletcher, when Raul whispered, Did you hear what I said in there?
“I was just defending my constitutional rights,” Tesla replied.
Before that, Raul murmured.
“What?” she said.
I don’t know what, he replied. I just felt some presence or other—
“You sound nervous,” Tesla replied, glancing around. The intersection was busier than ever. It was an unlikely place to be haunted, she thought, at least right now. At midnight, perhaps, it’d be a different story.
“Didn’t they bury suicides at crossroads?” she said to Raul. There was no reply. “Raul?”
Listen.
“What am I—?”
Just listen, will you?
There was plenty to hear. Horns honking, tires squealing, folks laughing and chattering, music from an open window, shouting through an open door.
Not that, Raul said.
“What then?”
Somebody’s whispering.
She listened again, trying to filter out the din of people and vehicles.
Close your eyes, Raul said, it’s easier in the dark.
She did so. The din continued, but she felt a little more remote from it.