by Clive Barker
“Do you know where?”
“Of course,” Ted said, giving Harry a mock-offended look.
“Where?”
“Down around Ninth and—”
“Ninth and what?”
“Maybe I should just take you.”
“No, Ted. You’re going to stay out of this.”
“Why?” Ted said, passing the wine bottle to Harry.
“Because you swore off all that shit, remember? Heroin and magic, out of your life. That’s what you said.”
“They are. I swear. Are you going to drink or not?”
Harry took a mouthful of wine. It was sour and warm. “So keep it that way. You’ve got a career to protect.”
Ted gave a little self-satisfied smile. “I like the sound of that,” he said.
“You were about to tell me the address.”
“Ninth, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth. It’s a triangular building. Looks deserted.” He claimed the wine bottle back from Harry’s hand, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “I’ve dug some secrets out of people in my time, but shit, getting this address, Harry, was like getting blood from a stone. What’s going on down there?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“The less you tell me,” Ted warned, “the more damn curious I’m going to get.”
Harry shook his head despairingly. “You don’t let go, do you?”
“I can’t help it,” Ted replied with a shrug, “I’ve got an addictive personality.” Harry said nothing. “Well?” Ted pressed. “What’s the big deal?”
“Ever heard of the Order of the Zyem Carasophia?”
Ted stared hard at Harry. “You’re kidding?” Harry shook his head. “This is a Concupigaea ceremony?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Harry . . . do you know what you’re messing with? They’re supposed to be exiles.”
“Are they?” Harry said.
“Don’t bullshit me, Harry. You know fucking well.”
“I hear rumors, sure.”
“And what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About where the fuck they came from?” Ted said, his agitation increasing.
“Like I say, it’s all rumors, but—”
“But?”
“I think they’re probably from Quiddity.”
Ted let out a low whistle. He needed no introduction to the notion of the dream-sea. He’d dabbled in occult practices for half a decade, until in the midst of a conjuration, high on heroin, he’d unwittingly unleashed something with psychopathic tendencies, which it had taken all of Harry’s wits to beat. Ted had sworn off magic and signed on for a detox program the same day. But the vocabulary of the occult still carried its old, familiar power, and there were few words in that vocabulary as potent as Quiddity.
“What are they doing here?” Ted said.
Harry shrugged. “Who knows? I’m not even sure they’re the real thing.”
“But if they are—?”
“If they are, I got some questions I need answering.”
“About what?”
“About that snake you put under my heel.”
“The Anti-Christ.”
“They call it the Iad.”
Again, Ted needed no education in seminologies. “The Uroboros and the Anti-Christ are the same thing?” he said.
“It’s all the Devil by another name,” Harry replied.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m a believer.”
* * *
II
The next day Harry went downtown to take a look at the building Ted had pinpointed. It was utterly commonplace, a four-story tenement, now apparently deserted, its windows boarded blind, its doors either padlocked or bricked up altogether. Harry ambled around it twice, studying it as discreetly as possible, in case he was being watched from inside. Then he headed back up to Norma’s apartment, to get some advice.
Conversation wasn’t always easy at Norma’s place. She had been since adolescence a beacon for lost and wandering souls (particularly the recently dead) and when she tired of their importunings she turned on the thirty-odd televisions she owned, the din of which drove the wanderers away for a spell, but rendered ordinary exchanges near impossible.
Today, however, the televisions were all mute. The screens flickered on, selling diets and cars and life everlasting. Norma didn’t see them, of course. She’d been blind since birth.
Not that she ever spoke like someone who was sightless.
“Look at you,” she said as soon as Harry opened the door. “Are you catching something?”
“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t get very much sleep.”
“More tattoos?” Norma said.
“Just one,” Harry admitted.
“Let me see.”
“Norma.”
“Let me see,” Norma said, reaching out from the well-cushioned comfort of her armchair.
Harry tossed his jacket on top of one of the televisions, and went over to Norma, who was sitting by the open window. The sounds of voices and traffic drifted up from below.
“Why don’t you turn on the air-conditioning?” Harry said as he rolled up his shirt sleeve. “You’re just breathing fumes.”
“I like to hear the world going by,” Norma said. “It’s reassuring. Now, let’s see the damage.” She took hold of Harry’s wrist and drew him a little closer, running her fingers up his arm to the place close to his elbow where he’d been most recently marked. “You still go to that old fake Voight?” Norma said, pulling away the bandage the tattooist had applied and running her fingers over the tender skin. Harry winced. “It’s nice work,” Norma conceded. “Though Christ knows what good you think it’s going to do you.”
This was an old debate between them. Harry had gathered the better part of a dozen tattoos over the last half-decade, all but two of which had been the handiwork of Otis Voight, who specialized in what he called protective ink: talismans and sigils etched into his clients’ skin to keep the bad at bay.
“I owe my life to some of these,” Harry said.
“You owe your life to your wits and your bloody-mindedness, Harry; no more nor less. Show me a tattoo that can stop a bullet—”
“I can’t.”
“Right. And a demon’s a damn sight worse than a bullet.”
“Bullets don’t have psyches,” Harry countered.
“Oh, and demons do?” said Norma. “No, Harry. They’re pieces of shit, that’s all they are. Little slivers of heartless filth.” She bared her fine teeth in a grimace. “Oh God,” she said, “but I’d love to be out there with you.”
“It’s not much fun,” Harry said. “Believe me.”
“Anything’s better than this,” she said, slamming her hands down on the arms of the chair. The glasses on the table beside her clicked against the rum and brandy bottles. “Sometimes I think this is a punishment, Harry. Sitting here day after day hearing people coming through with their tales of woe. Sobbin’ about this, sobbin’ about that. Regrettin’ this, regrettin’ that. I want to yell to ’em sometimes, It’s too damn late! You should’ve thought about regrettin’ while you could still do something about it. Ah! What’s the use? I’m stuck talking to the snotty dead while you have all the fun. You don’t know you’re born, boy. You really don’t.”
Harry wandered over to the window and looked down seven floors to Seventy-fifth. “One of these nights,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to come fetch you and we’re going to ride around for a few hours. Check out a few of the bad places, the really bad places, and see how quickly you change your mind.”
“You’re on,” Norma said. “In the meanwhile, to what do I owe the honor? You didn’t come here to show me Voight’s handiwork.”
“No.”
“And you didn’t come bearing rum.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved his apology away. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy you’re here. But why?”
“Go on, ask a blind woman what you should wear,” Norma replied, much amused. “Who’s throwing the party?”
“The Order of the Zyem Carasophia.”
Norma’s smile vanished. “That’s not funny, Harry.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Harry replied. “They’re having some kind of ceremony, and I have to be there.”
“Why?”
“Because if anyone knows where the Iad’ll attempt another breach it’s them.”
“There’s a good reason why nobody ever talks about them, Harry.”
“Because everybody buys the rumors. The fact is, nobody knows who the hell they are.”
“Or what,” Norma said.
“So you believe the stories?”
“About them being exiles?” Norma shrugged. “Seems to me, we’re all exiles.”
“Now don’t get metaphysical on me.”
“It’s not metaphysics, it’s the truth. All life began in the dream-sea, Harry. And we’ve all been trying to get back there ever since.”
“Why don’t I find that very comforting?”
“Because you’re afraid of what it means,” Norma said, lightly. “You’re afraid you’d have to throw away all the rules you live by, and then you’d go crazy.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“Oh no, I’d probably join you,” Norma replied. “The issue isn’t my sanity or yours, Harry. It’s what’s true or not. And I think you, me, and the Zyem have a lot in common.”
“What have I got to fear?” Harry said.
“They’re probably as afraid of you as you are of them, and that means they’d prefer to have your head on a plate where they can see it. Or eat it.”
“Ha fucking ha.”
“You asked,” Norma replied.
Harry turned his attention from the street to the television screens. Three dozen silent dramas were in progress before him, the cameras’ eyes picking up every little triumph and agony, whether real or rehearsed.
“Do you ever think we’re being watched?” Harry said, after a few moments of staring at the screens.
“I am, all the damn time,” Norma replied.
“I don’t mean by ghosts,” Harry replied.
“What then?”
“Oh, I don’t know—God?”
“No.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am. Sitting here right now. Ask me tomorrow I might have a different answer. I doubt it, but you never know.”
“You talk about demons—”
“So?”
“That means the Devil’s in the mix somewhere.”
“And if the Devil’s on the planet God must be too?” She shook her head. “We’ve had this argument before, Harry. It’s one of those useless subjects.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what your demons are—”
“They’re not mine, for a start.”
“You see, we’re disagreeing already. I think they’re very much yours.”
“You mean what happened to Hess was me?” Harry said, his timbre darkening.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“What then?”
“The demons find you, because you need them. So did Hess. You need them for the world to make sense to you. Some people believe in—I don’t know, what do people believe in? Politicians, movie stars . . . ” she sighed, exasperated. “Why are you fretting about it anyway?”
“Time of year. Time of life. I don’t know.” He paused. “That’s not true. I do know.”
“Goin’ to tell me?”
“I’ve got this constant feeling of dread.”
“About the Order?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I still believe in Hell. It’s me I don’t believe in any longer.”
“What the heck are you talkin’ ’bout?” Norma said. She extended her arm in Harry’s direction. “Come here,” she said. “Harry? You hear me?” Harry extended his arm, and Norma unerringly seized hold of his wrist. “I want you to listen to me,” she said. “An’ I don’t want you shushing me or tellin’ me you don’t want to hear, ’cause sometimes things don’t get said that should be said and I’m goin’ to say ’em now. Understand me?” She didn’t wait for Harry to agree to her conditions, but went on, tugging on Harry’s arm to bring him still closer to her chair. “You’re a good man, Harry, an’ that’s rare. I mean really rare. I think something moves in you that doesn’t move in most men, which is why you’re always being tested this way. I don’t know what it is testin’ you—or me come to that—but I know we got no choice. Understand me? We got no choice but to just get on with things, day by day, and make our way as best we can.”
“Okay, but—”
“I haven’t finished.”
“Sorry.”
She drew Harry down beside her. “How long we known each other?” she asked him.
“Eleven years.”
Her free hand went to his face. Touched his brow, his cheek, his mouth. “Takes its toll, huh?” she said.
“Yep.”
“If we knew why, Harry, we wouldn’t be what we are. Maybe we wouldn’t even be human.”
“You think that, really?” Harry said softly. “You think we have to just stumble on because that’s what being human is?”
“Part of it.”
“And if we did understand?” Harry said.
“We wouldn’t be human,” Norma said.
Harry let his head sink on Norma’s arm. “Maybe that’s it then,” he murmured.
“What is?”
“Maybe I think it’s time to stop being human.”
* * *
III
The new tattoo hurt more than any of the others. That night it itched furiously, and several times Harry woke from dreams of the design moving on his arm like a living thing, writhing to be out from under the dressing.
The next day he’d called Grillo and had what was to be his last conversation with the man, in the midst of which he’d spoken about the Anti-Christ. Grillo had made his contempt for the term perfectly plain (You’re too damn Catholic for your own good, he’d said) after which the exchange had come to a chilly end. The Reef and its keeper had been Harry’s last hope of useful information about the Order, and he had come up empty-handed. He would enter the building between Thirteenth and Fourteenth without any real sense of what he was facing. But then what else was new?
He took up his position across the street from the spot before noon the following day and waited. There was little sign of activity until the middle of the afternoon, when the first of the celebrants arrived, slipping out of a car, crossing the sidewalk fast, and disappearing down a flight of steps that led below ground level. Harry had no time even to glimpse his or her face. There were another ten or so appearances before dusk, all the visitors heading on down the same flight. Harry had checked it out when he’d first examined the building. There was an iron door at the bottom of the steps, which had looked to be rusted shut when he’d examined it. Plainly it was not.
He had expected things to speed up somewhat as darkness fell, but that was not the case. Another half dozen partygoers arrived, and disappeared down into the ground, but it began to seem as though the gathering would be considerably more intimate than he’d anticipated. This was both good news and bad. Good, because there would be fewer eyes to spot an interloper like himself; bad, in that it implied the ceremony was not mere ritual reunion; rather a meeting of a few authorities, bringing with them who knew what powers? Not a comfortable doubt.
Then, just a little before nine, with the last of the daylight gone from the sky, a cab drew up outside the liquor store at the corner of Thirteenth and Ted got out. The cab drove off, and he stood at the intersection a minute, pulling on a cigarette. Then he crossed towards the building. Harry had no choice but to break cover, and start towards him, hoping Ted would catch si
ght of him and retreat. But Ted had his eyes fixed on his destination, and before Harry could intercept him he’d disappeared around the back of the building. Slowing his pace somewhat so as not to attract undue attention (could he doubt somebody was watching from inside?) Harry gained the opposite side of the street and followed Ted around the block. But he had already gone. Harry doubled back, and turned the corner in time to see Ted starting down the flight of steps. Quietly cursing him, Harry picked up his pace. There was not sufficient traffic to cover the sound of his footfalls. Ted glanced back over his shoulder, flattening himself into the shadows of the stairs as he did so, only to emerge a moment later with a grin of welcome on his face.
“It’s you—”
Harry hushed him with a gesture, and beckoned him out of the stairwell, but Ted shook his head, pointing down the stairs to the door. Grimacing, Harry hurried along the wall, and headed down into the shadows to Ted’s side.
“You’re not coming with me,” he hissed.
“You think you’re going to get through that door without help?” Ted replied, pulling a hammer and crowbar from inside his jacket.
“You’re not getting involved with magic any more, remember?” Harry said.
“This is my farewell appearance,” Ted replied. Then, his voice dropping to a near growl, “I’m not taking no for an answer, Harry. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”
“I’m not going to be responsible for you,” Harry warned him.
“I’m not asking—”
“I mean it. I got too much on my plate as it is.”
“Deal,” Ted said, with a little grin. “So are we going or what?”
So saying, he slipped down the flight of stairs to the door. Harry followed on.
“Got your lighter?” Ted asked.
Harry fished for it and flicked it on. The flame showed them a door, encrusted with rust. Ted pulled out his crowbar and pushed it between the door and the jamb. Then he leaned all his weight against it. A hail of rust particles flew against their faces and the hinges of the door creaked, but it didn’t open.
“That’s no damn use,” Harry whispered.
“You got a better idea?” Ted hissed.
Harry snapped the cigarette lighter shut. In the darkness he said, “Yeah, I got a better idea. But you look the other way.”