Imajica 01 - The Fifth Dominion

by Clive Barker

  It had maneuvered the vehicle so that its snub nose faced the highway. The choice lay before them. Left, to the gates of Patashoqua. Right, down a highway which ran on past the Mount of Lipper Bayak to a horizon that rose, at the farthest limit of the eye, to a mountain range.

  "It's up to you," Pie said.

  Gentle looked longingly towards the city, tempted by its spires. But he knew there was wisdom in Pie's advice.

  "We'll come back someday, won't we?" he said.

  "Certainly, if that's what you want."

  "Then let's head the other way."

  The mystif turned the vehicle onto the highway, against the predominant flow of traffic, and with the city behind them they soon picked up speed.

  "So much for Patashoqua," Gentle said as the walls became a mirage.

  "No great loss," Pie remarked.

  "But I wanted to see the Merrow Ti' TV," Gentle said.

  "No chance," Pie returned.

  "Why?"

  "It was pure invention," Pie said. "Like all my favorite things, including myself. Pure invention!"

  19

  Though Jude had made an oath, in all sobriety, to follow Gentle wherever she'd seen him go, her plans for pursuit were stymied by a number of claims upon her energies, the most pressing of which was Clem's. He needed her advice, comfort, and organizational skills in the dreary, rainy days that followed New Year, and despite the urgency of her agenda she could scarcely turn her back on him. Taylor's funeral took place on January ninth, with a memorial service which Clem took great pains to perfect. It was a melancholy triumph: a time for Taylor's friends and relations to mingle and express their affections for the departed man. Jude met people she'd not seen in many years, and few, if any, failed to comment on the one conspicuous absentee: Gentle. She told everybody what she'd told Clem. That Gentle had been going through a bad time, and the last she'd heard he was planning to leave on holiday. Clem, of course, would not be fobbed off with such vague excuses. Gentle had left knowing that Taylor was dead, and Clem viewed his departure as a kind of cowardice. Jude didn't attempt to defend the wanderer. She simply tried to make as little mention of Gentle in Clem's presence as she could.

  But the subject would keep coming up, one way or another. Sorting through Taylor's belongings after the funeral, Clem came upon three watercolors, painted by Gentle in the style of Samuel Palmer, but signed with his own name and dedicated to Taylor. Pictures of idealized landscapes, they couldn't help but turn Clem's thoughts back to Taylor's unrequited love for the vanished man, and Jude's to the place he had vanished for. They were among the few items that Clem, perhaps vengefully, wanted to destroy, but Jude persuaded him otherwise. He kept one in memory of Taylor, gave one to Klein, and gave the third to Jude.

  Her duty to Clem not only took its toll upon her time but upon her focus. When, in the middle of the month, he suddenly announced that he was going to leave the next day for Tenerife, there to tan his troubles away for a fortnight, she was glad to be released from the daily duties of friend and comforter but found herself unable to rekindle the heat of ambition that had flared in her at the month's first hour. She had one unlikely touchstone, however: the dog. She only had to look at the mutt and she remembered—as though it were an hour ago—standing at the door of Gentle's flat and seeing the pair dissolving in front of her astonished eyes. And on the heels of that memory came thoughts of the news she had been carrying to Gentle that night: the dream journey induced by the stone that was now wrapped up and hidden from sight and seeing in her wardrobe. She was not a great lover of dogs, but she'd taken the mongrel home that night, knowing it would perish if she didn't. It quickly ingratiated itself, wagging a furious welcome when she returned home each night after being with Clem; sneaking into her bedroom in the early hours and making a nest for itself in her soiled clothes. She called it Skin, because it had so little fur, and while she didn't dote on it the way it doted on her, she was still glad of its company. More than once she found herself talking to it at great length, while it licked its paws or its balls, these monologues a means to refocus her thoughts without worrying that she was losing her mind. Three days after Clem's departure for sunnier climes, discussing with Skin how she should best proceed, Estabrook's name came up.

  "You haven't met Estabrook," she told Skin. "But I'll guarantee you won't like him. He tried to have me killed, you know?"

  The dog looked up from its toilet.

  "Yes, I was amazed too," she said, "I mean, that's worse than an animal, right? No disrespect, but it is. I was his wife. I am his wife. And he tried to have me killed. What would you do, if you were me? Yes, I know, I should see him. He had the blue eye in his safe. And that book! Remind me to tell you about the book sometime. No, maybe I shouldn't. It'll give you ideas."

  Skin settled his head on his crossed paws, gave a small sigh of contentment, and started to doze.

  "You're a big help," she said. "I need some advice here. What do you say to a man who tried to have you murdered?"

  Skin's eyes were closed, so she was obliged to furnish her own reply.

  "I say: Hello, Charlie, why don't you tell me the story of your life?"

  She called Lewis Leader the next day to find out whether Estabrook was still hospitalized. She was told he was, but that he'd been moved to a private clinic in Hampstead. Leader supplied details of his whereabouts, and Jude called to inquire both about Estabrook's condition and visiting hours. She was told he was still under close scrutiny but seemed to be in better spirits than he'd been, and she was welcome to come and see him at any time. There seemed little purpose in delaying the meeting. She drove up to Hampstead that very evening, through another tumultuous rainstorm, arriving to a welcome from the psychiatric nurse in charge of Estabrook's case, a chatty young man called Maurice who lost his top lip when he smiled, which was often, and talked with an almost indiscreet enthusiasm about the state of his patient's mind.

  "He has good days," Maurice said brightly. Then, just as brightly: "But not many. He's severely depressed. He made one attempt to kill himself before he came to us, but he's settled down a lot."

  "Is he sedated?"

  "We help keep the anxiety controllable, but he's not drugged senseless. We can't help him get to the root of the problem if he is."

  "Has he told you what that is?" she said, expecting accusations to be tossed in her direction.

  "It's pretty obscure," Maurice said. "He talks about you very fondly, and I'm sure your coming will do him a great deal of good. But the problem's obviously with his blood relatives. I've got him to talk a little about his father and his brother, but he's very cagey. The father's dead, of course, but maybe you can shed some light on the brother."-"I never met him."

  "That's a pity. Charles clearly feels a great deal of anger towards his brother, but I haven't got to the root of why. I will. It'll just take time. He's very good at keeping his secrets to himself, isn't he? But then you probably know that. Shall I take you along to see him? I did tell him you'd telephoned, so I think he's expecting you."Jude was irritated that the element of surprise had been removed, that Estabrook would have had time to prepare his feints and fabrications. But what was done was done, and rather than snap at the gleeful Maurice for his indiscretion she kept her displeasure to herself. She might need the man's smiling assistance in the fullness of time.

  Estabrook's room was pleasant enough. Spacious and comfortable, its walls adorned with reproductions of Monet and Renoir, it was a soothing space. Even the piano concerto that played softly in the background seemed composed to placate a troubled mind. Estabrook was not in bed but sitting by the window, one of the curtains drawn aside so he could watch the rain. He was dressed in pajamas and his best dressing gown, smoking. As Maurice had said, he was clearly awaiting his visitor. There was no flicker of surprise when she appeared at the door. And, as she'd anticipated, he had his welcome ready.

  "At last, a familiar face."

  He didn't open his arms to embrace her, but sh
e went to him and kissed him lightly on both cheeks.

  "One of the nurses will get you something to drink, if you'd like," he said.

  "Yes, I'd like some coffee. It's bitter out there."

  "Maybe Maurice'11 get it, if I promise to unburden my soul."

  "Do you?" said Maurice.

  "I do. I promise. You'll know the secrets of my potty training by this time tomorrow."

  "Milk and sugar?" Maurice asked.

  "Just milk," Charlie said. "Unless her tastes have changed."

  "No," she told him."Of course not. Judith doesn't change. Judith's eternal."

  Maurice withdrew, leaving them to talk. There was no embarrassed silence. He had his spiel ready, and while he delivered it—a speech about how glad he was that she'd come, and how much he hoped it meant she would begin to forgive him—she studied his changed face. He'd lost weight and was without his toupe'e, which revealed in his physiognomy qualities she'd never seen before. His large nose and tugged-down mouth, with jutting over-large lower lip, lent him the look of an aristocrat fallen on hard times. She doubted that she'd ever find it in her heart to love him again, but she could certainly manage a twinge of pity, seeing him so reduced.

  "I suppose you want a divorce," he said.

  "We can talk about that another time."

  "Do you need money?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "If you do—"

  "I'll ask."

  A male nurse appeared with coffee for1 Jude, hot chocolate for Estabrook, and biscuits. When he'd gone, she plunged into a confession. One from her, she reasoned, might elicit one from him.

  "I went to the house," she said. "To collect my jewelry."

  "And you couldn't get into the safe."

  "Oh, no, I got in."

  He didn't look at her, but sipped his chocolate noisily.

  "And I found some very strange things, Charlie. I'd like to talk about them."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Some souvenirs. A piece of a statute. A book."

  "No," he said, still not looking her way. "Those aren't mine. I don't know what they are. Oscar gave them to me to look after."

  Here was an intriguing connection. "Where did Oscar get them?" she asked him.

  "I didn't inquire," Estabrook said with a detached air. "He travels a lot, you know."

  "I'd like to meet him."

  "No, you wouldn't," he said hurriedly. "You wouldn't like him at all."

  "Globe-trotters are always interesting," she said, attempting to preserve a lightness in her tone.

  "I told you," he said. "You wouldn't like him."

  "Has he been to see you?"

  "No. And I wouldn't see him if he did. Why are you asking me these questions? You've never cared about Oscar before."

  "He is your brother," she said. "He has some filial responsibility."

  "Oscar? He doesn't care for anybody but himself. He only gave me those presents as a sop."

  "So they were gifts. I thought you were just looking after them."

  "Does it matter?" he said, raising his voice a little. "Just don't touch them, they're dangerous. You put them back, yes?"

  She lied and told him she had, realizing any more discussion on the matter would only infuriate him further.

  "Is there a view out of the window?" she asked him.

  "Of the heath," he said. "It's very pretty on sunny days, apparently. They found a body there on Monday. A woman, strangled. I watched them combing the bushes all day yesterday and all day today: looking for clues, I suppose. In this weather. Horrible, to be out in this weather, digging around looking for soiled underwear or some such. Can you imagine? I thought: I'm damn lucky I'm in here, warm and cosy."

  If there was any indication of a change in his mental processes it was here, in this strange digression. An earlier Es-tabrook would have had no patience with any conversation that was not serving a clear purpose. Gossip and its purveyors had drawn his contempt like little else, especially when he knew he was the subject of the tittle-tattle. As to gazing out of a window and wondering how others were faring in the cold, that would have been literally unthinkable two months before. She liked the change, just as she liked the newfound nobility in his profile. Seeing the hidden man revealed gave her faith in her own judgment. Perhaps it was this Estabrook she'd loved all along.

  They spoke for a while more, without returning to any of the personal matters between them, and parted on friendly terms, with an embrace that was genuinely warm.

  "When will you come again?" he asked her.

  "In the next couple of days," she told him.

  "I'll be waiting."

  So the gifts she'd found in the safe had come from Oscar Godolphin. Oscar the mysterious, who'd kept the family name while brother Charles disowned it; Oscar the enigmatic; Oscar the globe-trotter. How far afield had he gone, she wondered, to have returned with such outre" trophies? Somewhere out of this world, perhaps, into the same remoteness to which she'd seen Gentle and Pie 'oh' pah dispatch themselves? She began to suspect that there was some conspiracy abroad. If two men who had no knowledge of each other, Oscar Godolphin and John Zacharias, knew about this other world and how to remove themselves there, how many others in her circle also knew? Was it information only available to men? Did it come with the penis and a mother fixation, as part of the male apparatus? Had Taylor known? Did Clem? Or was this some kind of family secret, and the part of the puzzle she was missing was the link between a Godolphin and a Zacharias?

  Whatever the explanation, it was certain she would not get answers from Gentle, which meant she had to seek out brother Oscar. She tried by the most direct route first: the telephone directory. He wasn't listed. She then tried via Lewis Leader, but he claimed to have no knowledge of the man's whereabouts or fortunes, telling her that the affairs of the two brothers were quite separate, and he had never been called to deal with any matter involving Oscar Godolphin.

  "For all I know," he said, "the man could be dead." Having drawn a blank with the direct routes, she was thrown back upon the indirect. She returned to Esta-brook's house and scoured it thoroughly, looking for Oscar's address or telephone number. She found neither, but she did turn up a photograph album Charlie had never shown to her, in which pictures of what she took to be the two brothers appeared. It wasn't difficult to distinguish one from the other. Even in those early pictures Charlie had the troubled look the camera always found in him, whereas Oscar, younger by a few years, was nevertheless the more confident of the pair: a little overweight, but carrying it easily, smiling an easy smile as he hooked his arm around his brother's shoulders. She removed the most recent of the photographs from the album which pictured Charles at puberty or thereabouts, and kept it. Repetition, she found, made theft easier. But it was the only information about Oscar she took away with her. If she was to get to the traveler and find out in what world he'd bought his souvenirs, she'd have to work on Estabrook to do so. It would take time, and her impatience grew with every short and rainy day. Even though she had the freedom to buy a ticket anywhere on the planet, a kind of claustrophobia was upon her. There was another world to which she wanted access. Until she got it, Earth itself would be a prison.

  Leader called Oscar on the morning of January seventeenth with the news that his brother's estranged wife was asking for information on his whereabouts.

  "Did she say why?"

  "No, not precisely. But she's very clearly sniffing after something. She's apparently seen Estabrook three times in the last week."

  "Thank you, Lewis. I appreciate this."

  "Appreciate it in hard cash, Oscar," Leader replied. "I've had a very expensive Christmas."

  "When have you ever gone empty-handed?" Oscar said. "Keep me posted."

  The lawyer promised to do so, but Oscar doubted he'd provide much more by way of useful information. Only truly despairing souls confided in lawyers, and he doubted Judith was the despairing type. He'd never met her— Charlie had seen to that—b
ut if she'd survived his company for any time at all she had to have a will of iron. Which begged the question: Why would a woman who knew (presuming she did) that her husband had conspired to kill her, seek out his company, unless she had an ulterior motive? And was it conceivable that said motive was finding brother Oscar? If so, such curiosity had to be nipped in the bud. There were already enough variables at play, what with the Society's purge now under way, and the inevitable police investigation on its heels, not to mention his new majordomo Augustine (ne Dowd), who was behaving in altogether too snotty a fashion. And of course, most volatile of these variables, sitting in his asylum beside the heath, Charlie himself, probably crazy, certainly unpredictable, with all manner of tidbits in his head which could do Oscar a lot of harm. It could be only a matter of time before he started to become talkative, and when he did, what better ear to drop his discretions into than that of his inquiring wife?

  That evening he sent Dowd (he couldn't get used to that saintly Augustine) up to the clinic, with a basket of fruit for his brother.

  "Find a friend there, if you can," he told Dowd. "I need to know what Charlie babbles about when he's being bathed."

  "Why don't you ask him directly?"

  "He hates me, that's why. He thinks I stole his mess of pottage when Papa introduced me into the Tabula Rasa instead of Charlie."

  "Why did your father do that?"

  "Because he knew Charlie was unstable, and he'd do the Society more harm than good. I've had him under control until now. He's had his little gifts from the Dominions. He's had you fawn upon him when he needed something out of the ordinary, like his assassin. This all started with that fucking assassin! Why couldn't you have just killed the woman yourself?"

  "What do you take me for?" Dowd said with distaste. "I couldn't lay hands on a woman. Especially not a beauty."

  "How do you know she's a beauty?"

  "I've heard her talked about."

  "Well, I don't care what she looks like. I don't want her meddling in my business. Find out what she's up to. Then we'll work out our response."