by Clive Barker
There, Raul murmured.
He was right. Somewhere between the traffic and the chatter, a tiny voice was trying to be heard. No, it seemed to be saying. And something about ketchup. Tesla concentrated, trying to tune her mind’s ear into the voice, the way she’d tuned in to the conversations in the Diner. No, it said again, no about, no about—
“Know about,” Tesla murmured. “It knows about something.”
“Ketch . . . ketch . . . ” the voice said.
Ketch?
“Ketch a—”
No, not ketch a: Fletcher.
“You hear that?” she said to Raul. “It knows about Fletcher. That’s what it’s saying. It knows about Fletcher.” She listened again, tuning into the frequency where the voice had been. The sound was still there, but barely. She held her breath, focusing every jot of her attention upon interpreting the signal. It wasn’t words she was hearing now, it was a number. Two. Two. Six.
She said it aloud, so that the whisperer knew she’d understood.
“Two—two—six. Right?”
And now came further syllables. Itch or witch. Then hell, or something like it.
“Try again,” she said softly. But either her powers of concentration or the whisperer’s strength was giving out. Itch, she thought it said again. Then it was gone. She kept listening, hoping it would make further contact, but there was nothing. “Shit,” she muttered.
What we need’s a map, Raul said.
“What for?”
It was an address, Tesla. He was telling you where to find Fletcher.
She looked back towards the diner. Her waitress caught sight of her as she opened the door.
“Please—” the woman began.
“It’s okay,” Tesla said. “I just want one of these.” She picked up a Festival brochure from the rack just inside the door. “Have a nice day.”
When did you get to be so rabid about Jesus, by the way? Raul asked her as she sat astride the bike studying the map on the back of the brochure.
“I’m not,” she said. “I love all that shit. I just think words are—” She stopped. Peered more closely at the map. “Mitchell Street,” she said. “That’s got to be it. Mitchell.”
She pocketed the map and started the bike. “Are you ready for this?” she said.
Precious, he replied.
“What?”
You were going to say words are precious.
“Was I?”
And no: I’m not ready.
FIVE
I
Erwin had journeyed down to Kitty’s Diner in search of the familiar; some face or voice he knew and liked, to settle the panic in him. Instead he’d heard a woman he’d never seen in his life before asking about his murderer, and he had almost gone crazy with frustration, haranguing her at a volume that would have torn his throat if he’d had a throat to tear, while she paraded her command of gutter-talk for Bosley.
She was neither as stupid or insensitive as that display might have suggested, however. Once she was outside she’d stopped to listen, and he’d pressed so close to her it would have been deemed molestation if he’d been flesh and blood, telling her over and over where Fletcher was. His tenacity had paid off. She’d gone back for the city map, and while she’d studied it, he had tried to warn her that Fletcher was dangerous.
This time, however, she hadn’t heard. He wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps people couldn’t map-read and hear the dead talk at the same time. Perhaps the fault lay with him, and he’d lost the knack of communication with the living moments after finding it. Whichever, what he had hoped would blossom into a fruitful exchange had been cut short, and the woman had been off on her motorcycle before he could tell her about Fletcher’s murderous tendencies. He was not overly concerned for her well-being. If she was in search of Fletcher, he reasoned, then she surely knew what he was capable of, and to judge by her performance in the diner she was no milquetoast.
He watched her carving her way through the traffic on Main Street and envied her access to the combustion engine. Though he’d always been contemptuous of ghost stories (they’d belonged to the negligible realm of fable and fantasy), he knew phantoms had a reputation for defying gravity. They hovered, they flew; they perched in trees and steeples. Why then did he feel so earthbound, his body—which he knew damn well was notional; the real thing was lying in his living room—still behaving as though gravity had a claim on it?
Sighing, he started back towards his house. If the return journey took as long as the outward, then by the time he reached home the encounter he’d initiated would be over. But what was a lost soul to do? He would have to make his way as best he could, and hope that with time he’d better understand the state he’d died into.
* * *
II
Phoebe went to Erwin’s office unannounced and found it closed. On any other day but today she would have left the matter there. Gone home. Waited till Monday. But these were very special circumstances. She couldn’t wait; not another hour. She would go by his house, she decided, and beg for just half an hour of his time. That wasn’t much to ask, now was it? Especially since she’d inconvenienced herself for him the day before.
She popped into the drugstore two blocks down from the offices, and asked Maureen Scrimm, who had her hair tinted for the celebrations and looked like the local tart, if she could borrow the phone book. Maureen wanted to gossip, but the store was crowded. Armed with Erwin’s home address, Phoebe left Maureen to make eyes at every able-bodied man under sixty-five, and headed for Mitchell Street.
It was a quiet little thoroughfare lined with attractive, well-kept houses, the lawns and hedges trimmed, the fences and window frames painted. The kind of haven Tesla had fantasized about many times on her journey across the Americas; a place where people were good to each other, and lived, physically and spiritually, within their modest means. It didn’t take much guesswork to figure out why Fletcher had chosen to lodge here. He had staged his own immolation back in the Grove in order to imagine from the dreams of its healthy, loving citizens, a legion of champions. Hallucigenia, he’d dubbed them, and left them to wage war in the streets of the Grove after his demise. If another battle was now in the offing, as Kate Farrell had predicted, then where better to seek out minds from which he could create new soldiers than in a haven like this, where people still had faith in a civilized life, and might conjure heroes to defend it?
Listen to you, Raul said as Tesla wandered along the street looking for Fletcher’s hideaway.
“Was I thinking aloud or were you just eavesdropping?”
Eavesdropping, Raul replied. And I’m amazed.
“By what?”
By the way you’re drooling over this place. You hated Palomo Grove.
“It was phoney.”
This isn’t?
“No. It looks . . . comfortable.”
You’ve been on the road too long.
“That may have something to do with it,” Tesla conceded. “I am a little saddle-weary. But this looks like a good place to settle down—”
Maybe raise some kids? You and Lucien? Wouldn’t that be nice.
“Don’t be snide.”
All right, it wouldn’t be nice. It’d be a living hell.
They had come, at last, to the whisperer’s house, and very smart it was too.
Tesla—
“What?”
Fletcher was always a little crazy, remember that.
“How could I forget?”
So forgive him his trespasses—
“You’re excited. I can feel you trembling.”
I used to call him father all the time. He used to tell me not to, but that’s what he was. That’s what he is. I want to see him again—
“So do I,” she said. It was the first time she’d actually admitted the fact in so many words. Yes, Fletcher was crazy, and yes, unpredictable. But he was also the man who’d created the Nuncio, the man who’d turned to light in front of her eyes, the man who’d had her h
alf-believing in saints. If anyone deserved to have outwitted oblivion, it was him.
She started up the front path, studying the house for some sign of occupancy. There was none. The drapes were drawn at all but one of the windows, and there were two newspapers uncollected on the step.
She knocked. There was no response, but she wasn’t that surprised. If Fletcher was indeed in residence, he was unlikely to be answering the door. She rapped again, just for good measure, then went to the one window without closed drapes and peered in. It was a dining room, furnished with antique furniture. Whoever lived here when Fletcher wasn’t visiting had taste.
Something’s wrong with the sewers, Raul said.
“The sewers?”
Don’t you smell it?
She sniffed, and caught a whiff of something unpleasant.
“Is it from inside?” she asked Raul, but before he could reply she heard a footfall on the gravel path and somebody said, “Are you looking for Erwin?”
She turned. There was a woman standing a couple of yards from the front gate: large, pale, and overdressed.
“Erwin—” Tesla said, thinking fast, “yeah. I was just . . . is he around today?”
The woman studied Tesla with faint suspicion. “He should be,” she said. “He’s not at his office.”
“Huh. I knocked, but there was no reply.” The woman looked distinctly disappointed. “I was going to try round the back,” Tesla went on, “see if he’s getting himself a tan.”
“Did you try the bell?” the woman replied.
“No, I—”
The woman marched down the path and jabbed the bell. A saccharine jingle could be heard from inside. Tesla waited ten seconds. Then, when there was no sign of movement, she started round the side of the house, leaving the woman to try jabbing the bell again at the front.
“Ripe,” she remarked to Raul as the smell of excrement intensified. She watched the ground as she went, half-expecting to find that a pipe had burst and the last flushings of Erwin’s toilet were bubbling up from the ground. But there was nothing. No turds; and no Erwin either, sunning himself in the backyard.
“Maybe this isn’t the house,” she said to Raul. “Maybe there’s another street that sounds like Mitchell.”
She turned on her heel, only to find that bell-jabber was coming down the side of the house herself, with a look of slight agitation on her face.
“There’s somebody inside,” she said. “I looked through the letterbox and I saw somebody at the end of the hall.”
“Was it Erwin?”
“I couldn’t see. It was too dark.”
“Huh.” Tesla stared at the wall, as though she might pierce it with her sight if she looked hard enough.
“There was something weird about him—”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” She looked spooked.
“You want to call the cops?”
“No. No, I don’t think we have to bother Jed with this. Maybe I’ll just . . . you know . . . try another day.”
This is one nervous lady, Raul said.
“If there’s some problem in here . . . ” Tesla said. “Maybe I’ll just look round the other side.” She started back towards the yard. “I’m Tesla by the way,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’m Phoebe.”
Well, well . . . said Raul, the scarlet woman.
It was all Tesla could do not to say: Everybody’s talking about you.
“Are you a relative of Erwin’s?” Phoebe asked her.
“No, why?”
“It’s none of my business, but I know you’re not from Everville—”
“So you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” Tesla replied, as she tried the back door. It was locked. Cupping her hands around her eyes she peered through the glass. There were a few signs of life. A carton of orange juice overturned on the table; a small pile of dishes beside the sink. “I’m not here to see Erwin,” Tesla went on. “Truth is, I don’t even know Erwin.” She glanced round at Phoebe, who didn’t seem overly concerned that she was talking to a potential house-breaker.
“I came to see a guy called Fletcher. Don’t suppose the name means anything?”
Phoebe thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. “He’s not a local man,” she stated. “I’m sure I’d know him if he were.”
“Small town, huh?”
“It’s getting too small for me,” Phoebe said, unable to disguise her sourness. “Everybody pretty much knows everybody else’s business.”
“I heard a few rumors myself.”
“About me?” said Phoebe.
“You’re the Phoebe Cobb, right?”
Phoebe pursed her lips. “I wish to God I wasn’t right now,” she said, “but yes. I’m Phoebe Cobb.” She sighed, her robust façade cracking. “Whatever you heard—”
“I couldn’t give a shit,” Tesla said. “I know it can’t be much fun—”
“I’ve had better days,” Phoebe said, seeming to suddenly catch the defeat in her voice and pulling herself together. “Look, obviously Mr. Toothaker doesn’t want to answer the door to either of us.”
Tesla smiled. “Toothaker? That’s his name? Erwin Toothaker?”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing. I think it’s perfect,” Tesla said. “Erwin Toothaker.” She peered through the window again, squinting.
The door that led into the rest of the house was a couple of inches ajar, and as she stared, a sinuous shadow seemed to move through the gap.
She recoiled from the back door six inches, startled.
“What is it?” Phoebe said.
Tesla blinked, licked her lips, and looked again. “Does our Erwin keep snakes?” she said.
“Snakes?”
“Yeah, snakes.”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“It’s gone now, but I could swear I saw . . . ”
Tesla? Raul murmured.
“What?”
Snakes and the smell of shit. What does that combination remind you of?
She didn’t answer. Just backed away from the door, suddenly clammy. No, her mind said, no, no, no. Not Lix. Not here. Not in this little backwater.
Tesla, get hold of yourself.
She was suddenly trembling from head to foot.
“Is it there again?” Phoebe said, taking a step towards the door.
“Don’t,” Tesla said.
“I’m not scared of snakes.”
Tesla put her hand to block Phoebe’s approach. “I mean it,” she said.
Phoebe pushed her arm aside. “I want to look,” she said forcibly, and put her face to the window. “I don’t see anything.”
“It came and went.”
“Or it was never there,” Phoebe replied. She looked back at Tesla. “You don’t look so good,” she said.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“Have you got a phobia?”
Tesla shook her head. “Not about snakes.” She reached out and gently plucked at Phoebe’s arm. “I really think we should get out of here.”
Either the grim tone in her voice, or the look on her ashen face apparently was enough to convince Phoebe she was deadly serious, because now she too retreated from the back door.
“Maybe I was just imagining it,” Tesla replied, hoping to any God who’d listen that this was true. She was ready for anything but Lix.
With Phoebe trailing after her she made her way back round to the front of the house, and up the path to the street.
“Happy now?” Phoebe said.
“Just walk with me, will you?” Tesla said, and set the pace until they’d put fifty yards between themselves and the Toothaker house. Only then did Tesla slow down.
“Happy now?” Phoebe said again, this time a little testily.
Tesla stood staring up at the sky, and drew several long, calming breaths before she said, “This is worse than I thought.”
“What is? What are you talking about?”
<
br /> Tesla drew another deep breath. “I think there’s something evil in that house,” she replied.
Phoebe glanced back down the street, which looked more serene than ever as the afternoon drew on.
“I know it’s hard to believe—”
“Oh no,” Phoebe said flatly. “I can believe it.” When she looked back at Tesla she was wearing a small, tight smile. “This place is cruel,” she said. “It doesn’t look it, but it is.”
Tesla began to think maybe there’d been a certain synchronicity in their meetings. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said.
“Okay. I’m not going to try and—”
“I mean yes,” Phoebe said. “Yes, I do want to talk about it.”
SIX
There’s something wrong with the sea.”
Joe sat up, and looked down the shore towards the booming surf. The waters were almost velvety, the waves large enough to tempt a surfer, but curling and breaking more slowly than those on any terrestrial shore. Flecks of iridescence rose in their lavish curl, and glittered on their crests.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
Noah grunted. “Look out there,” he said, and pointed out beyond the breakers, to the place where the horizon should have been. Black and gray and green pillars of clouds were apparently rising from the sea as though some titanic heat was turning the waters to steam. The heavens, meanwhile, were falling in floods and fires. It was a spectacle the scale of which Joe had never conceived before, like a scene from the making of the world, or its unmaking.
“What’s causing all that?”
“I don’t want to speak the words until I’m certain,” Noah said. “But I begin to think we should be careful, even here.”
“Careful about what?”
“About waiting for the likes of that to come our way,” he said, and pointed along the shore.
Three or four miles from where they stood he could see the roofs and spires of a city. Liverpool, he presumed. In between, perhaps a quarter of that distance away, was an approaching procession.
“That’s a Blessedm’n,” Noah said, “I think we’re better away, Joe.”
“Why?” Joe wanted to know. “What’s a Blessedm’n?”