by Clive Barker
He forced open his eyes and saw that he was in a room lit only by the illumination from the lamps outside in the street below. He threw off his sheet. He was completely naked, and he saw no sign of his clothes, which had been in a dusty, bloody state after all that had happened on Dupont Street. Noticing his nudity, he saw, for the first time, the wounds that he had been dealt. He looked down at them. The flesh looked raw, but when he touched the place he felt no more than a mild discomfort. These people who’d rescued him clearly knew their business as healers. He pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapped it loosely around his torso, and left his sickroom in search of a place to relieve himself. There were three candles set in simple, white bowls along the wall just outside his room. Harry saw that he was on the second floor of a somewhat large French Colonial–style home.
“Hello?” he called. “I’m awake. And naked.”
Except for the sound of rain beating down on the roof, Harry’s calls were met with silence. He moved on down the carpeted hallway, passing two more bedrooms, until he finally found a bathroom. Its tiled floor was chilly beneath his bare feet, but he didn’t care. Unwrapping the bedsheet, he raised the toilet seat and unleashed the contents of his bladder with a blissful sigh.
He went to the sink and ran the hot water. The pipes chugged and stuttered, the noise they made echoing off the tiled walls. He splashed some water on his face and examined his pallid complexion in the mirror. The noise in the pipes was getting louder; he realized he could now feel their lamentations through the floor. Then, there was another sound, rising from the chug and shudder of the pipes.
It sounded as though somebody was throwing up—here, in the bathroom with him. It wasn’t hard to trace. The noise was coming out of the bath, or rather out of its plughole, which, Harry now saw, was throwing up a gruel of dark gray water, bringing up with it a tangled mass of long black hair and what looked like recycled chunks of excrement. An unmistakable stench came to meet him from the darkness, that of human remains.
It was a smell with which Harry was woefully familiar, though it still carried power. The smell wasn’t just repugnant; it was also a distracting reminder of rooms he’d stood in and trenches he’d uncovered where the dead lay in corruption, their skins barely containing the maggot motion they were home to.
Caz’s handiwork twitched. No doubt about it: Harry had been awake for less than five minutes and already he was in trouble. The filthy waters and their sickening freight had come to do him harm. How exactly they might do so was not a puzzle he had any desire to see solved. He snatched his makeshift clothing off the edge of the bath, wrapped it once more around his middle, and tucked it in on itself as he went to the door. He’d closed it when he’d come in, but given that there was neither a key nor a bolt to secure any further privacy, he was surprised to find that when he pulled on the knob the thing refused to move.
It was an unwelcome reminder of the doors on Dupont Street—some of which had been visible, some contentedly wrapped in hooks and chains, all conspiring against his next breath. He turned the polished knob in both directions, hoping to chance upon the trick of its release, but there was more than a faulty mechanism keeping the door from opening. He’d been sealed up in here with—with what, he didn’t know.
He glanced back at the bath. The hairs that had appeared from the plughole had now risen up from the surface of the water in several places and were knitting themselves together, forming what was unmistakably the rough outline of a head, the cavorting waters rising up into it, like fish caught in a net. Harry dragged his sight off this bizarrity so as to focus his attentions on getting the door open. He grabbed the knob with both hands and proceeded to shake the door with deserved violence, coaxing it to open.
“Open up, you sonofabitch!”
But there was no movement, no sign, however minimal, that the door was succumbing to his assault. He gave up on the handle and tried another approach: pounding on the door with his fists and yelling for someone to save him. He shouted over and over, but there was no reply—only the sounds of the thing that was with him in the room. Twice he looked back at the bath as he pounded on the door, and on each occasion the raw human form being sewn together with hair and water and shit was closer to completion.
With the first glance, Harry saw only the head, shoulders, and rough sketch of its torso. On the second glance, the torso had been completed, all the way down to its sexless groin, the boneless arms moving more like tentacles than human limbs. The hair hadn’t even attempted to craft hands from its tangles. Instead it slithered and coiled together until it had given itself two hammerhead-shaped fists, one of which it slammed against the wall with astonishing force. The tiles it struck shattered, sending shards far enough to prick Harry’s skin.
The excremental stench had steadily grown in intensity as the creature rose up and out of its birthplace, the sting so sharp it brought tears to Harry’s eyes. He wiped them away with the heel of his hand, and with his sight momentarily cleared he looked around for something he could use to defend himself. All he had was the sheet he was wearing. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He untucked it, glancing up at his hammer-handed adversary. The creature was stepping out of the bath now, shedding globs of gummy, greasy fluid as it did so.
The stink was overpowering. There were fresh tears welling in Harry’s eyes again, but he hadn’t time to clear his vision. The thing was out of the bath swinging its left arm back over its right shoulder as it lurched toward Harry. As it did so, Harry opened the sheet and threw it high and above the fetid waters of the enemy’s head. The sheet landed on the creature and clung to it like leaves on a wet sidewalk.
The creature was clearly disoriented. Whether Harry had actually blinded the beast for a moment, which seemed unlikely, or he’d simply confused it for a short time, the effect was the same. The thing swung its hammer-hand high, intending to shear off Harry’s head, but in the four or five seconds between the blinding and the blow Harry had dropped down onto his haunches and out of the hammer’s path.
The beast’s blow missed Harry by inches, but for the first time since walking into this vision Harry felt the healing wounds from the Hell Priest’s hooks break open with the sudden movement. His hand went down to the injuries in his thighs and the blood spilled down the sides of his legs and onto the linoleum beneath him.
Harry dragged his bleeding ass across the floor in the hopes of putting some distance between himself and the hammers. Only when his spine hit the tiled wall and he could go no farther did he dare look up at the foe. The sheet had proved more valuable than he’d expected; soaking up the gray filth that churned between the woven hairs of its head and back, the sodden sheet clung relentlessly to the creature, much to its visible frustration.
The creature reached up trying to rid itself of the burden, but its hands were made for murder, not for tending shrouds, and in its frenzy it threw its whole body back and forth, causing some of its fluids to escape the fragile cage of its making.
The creature stumbled and, for a single heart-quickening second, Harry feared the creature was going to fall on top of him, but it reeled around and fell the opposite way, striking the door. The falling weight of water and filth in the ungainly body of the thing was enough to knock the door from its hinges so that it toppled out onto the carpeted landing.
The fall tore a zigzag laceration up the side of the creature, and dark liquid matter poured forth from the wound and was instantly absorbed by the carpet that sat beneath its protesting body. Harry watched in fascination as the creature bled out, leaving behind only a corpse of hair and feces that vaguely resembled a human form.
As Harry struggled to pull himself to his feet, he heard Dale’s voice.
“Harry? Are you all right?”
It sounded as though Dale were in the room with him. Harry, still in shock, scanned the room with his eyes and saw the wallpaper flicker like blown candle flames. Harry sighed.
“Gimme a break,” he said. “There’s no
fucking way I’m dreaming.”
And then he woke up.
11
“I’ve called Miss Bellmer,” Solomon said as Dale and Harry sat down in the living room with their strongest drinks of choice to talk about what had happened during the last few days. Solomon, a man no younger than seventy-five, was lanky and tall, with a shock of gray hair. He stood nearly a foot taller than Dale and was easily thirty years his senior. “Have you any enemies, Mister D’Amour?” he asked.
“I lost count before I graduated high school,” Harry said.
“Really now?” Dale said, a hint of arousal in his manner.
“Well, that settles it,” Solomon continued. “Something followed you down here and decided to have you murdered while you were away from your usual protectors.”
“Protectors?”
“The folks in your life who know who you really are,” Dale offered.
“I guess that would be Caz and Norma.”
“That’s it?” said Solomon. “You don’t trust a lot of people, do you?”
“Most of the people I used to trust aren’t around anymore.”
“Oh, honey,” Dale said. “I’ll be your friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Solomon said.
“It’s fine,” Harry said. “Some die too soon. Most live too long.”
Before anyone had time to reply, somebody rapped sharply on the front door.
“That’ll be Miss Bellmer,” Solomon said. “You two stay here.”
Solomon went to open the front door and Harry’s Unscratchable Itch started its familiar song. Harry squirmed in his seat.
“What on earth’s wrong, Sol?” Harry heard Miss Bellmer saying out in the hallway. “You look troubled.”
“Oh, no more than usual,” Solomon replied.
“Well, thank the Lord for small mercies. How’s the patient?”
“He’s doing fine.”
Upon which words Solomon brought Miss Bellmer into the room. Freddie Bellmer looked more than a little surprised to see Harry. Aside from her reaction, Harry noted that Miss Bellmer had a beautiful face: high cheekbones, huge, dark eyes, and lips so perfect they looked carved. But he also saw that there was something about her height (she was easily as tall as Solomon) and her clothes (though brightly colored and voluminous, they carefully concealed the shape of her body) that created a distinctive ambiguity about her.
“Your tonic seems to have done its job,” Solomon said.
“So it has,” Miss Bellmer said.
“Detective D’Amour, meet Miss Freddie Bellmer,” Solomon said. “She’s been a friend of mine since … well…”
“Since before I was Miss Bellmer,” she said. “As I’m sure your patient has already deduced. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
Harry shrugged as he rose to shake Bellmer’s hand. “I’m off duty.”
Dale snickered. Bellmer smiled an abundant smile, which somehow felt like a denunciation to Harry. She took Harry’s hand in hers. Her calloused hands belied her dainty handshake.
“You are a lot livelier than the last time I saw you,” she said.
“I have a strong constitution.”
“Without a doubt. But I do have a warning for you, Mister D’Amour. I didn’t just look at your physical wounds; I looked at the important things too. The will. The soul. Lord, but you must have had some hard times. You’re nothing but one big psychic scar. I never saw such a mess in all my life.”
“Takes one to spot one.”
Dale tried hard to cover up a smile, but he was clearly enjoying the show.
“Grow up, Dale,” said Miss Bellmer. “You stupid queen.”
“At least this queen can still tell you to suck his dick,” Dale said.
Now it was Harry who tried covering a smile.
“Children. Play nice,” Solomon said.
Miss Bellmer sighed, her hand going to her brow. “Sol, darling, do you by any chance have some vodka in the house?”
“Coming right up,” Sol said, and he went in search of vodka, leaving Miss Bellmer to pick up her conversation with Harry.
“So how do you feel?” Miss Bellmer said.
“Alive,” Harry said. Then he leaned in close to Miss Bellmer and whispered, “No thanks to you. Admit it; you were surprised to see me when you walked in. I remember your voice. I remember what happened when you visited me. And something tells me that if that disgusting beast in my dream had caught me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. So what I’d like to know is, to whom did you sell your soul, and for how much?”
Miss Bellmer smiled, cleared her throat, and said, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”
“Very convincing,” D’Amour said as he turned away from Bellmer and made his way carefully back to the couch.
“Freddie, you may want to reapply your blush, dear. You’ve gone white as a sheet,” Dale said.
“Fuck off, Dale,” Bellmer said, her voice deepening. “As for you, D’Amour, I’d tread lightly if I were you. I’ve got powerful friends in high places. Very fucking high. I’m protected.”
“Take it from me,” Harry said. “They really don’t care about little people like us. We’re cannon fodder to them.”
“You don’t know who they are.”
“Whatever you say, sir. I promise you, come the day, you’ll be out in the rain the same as me.”
Harry’s response had sown sufficient doubt in Miss Bellmer’s head to silence her.
Bellmer’s lips were pinched tight as though she was doing her best not to give D’Amour any more rope with which she could be hanged.
“I’ve never seen you so quiet, Freddie,” Dale said, happy to fan the flames. “What’s the matter, doll? Cat got your cock?”
Bellmer wagged a long, well-manicured finger at the two men. “I’ve got something special lined up for a whole bunch of people. And you’re both on the list now. Mutts like you go straight in the ground. I’ll make you dig the hole yourself. Then I’ll kick you in, and cover you up. Neat. Cheap. Anonymous.”
“Christ almighty,” said Dale. “Where did that come from?”
“You already tried to kill me once,” said D’Amour. “If you try it again, I might not like it.”
“We’ll see how much you like it when you’re eating dirt, motherfucker. Take my advice. Go the fuck home.”
“Freddie?” Solomon said. “What’s come over you?”
Solomon had emerged from the kitchen with an unopened bottle of vodka and four shot glasses and had caught the tail end of her speech. Freddie turned and saw the disappointment on her old friend’s face.
“Sol,” Bellmer said, attempting to compose herself. “I came to warn you. This man’s dangerous. I think—”
“I think you should leave,” Sol said.
Freddie Bellmer took a moment to digest Solomon’s words. When it was clear he was not going to rescind them, she whipped her long straight hair over her shoulder and consulted her watch, which looked minuscule on her broad, thick wrist.
“Look at that,” she said, trying to maintain a modicum of composure. “I’m late for my next patient.”
And, without saying good-bye, she was out through the door. There was a moment of silence, and then Dale spoke.
“I always knew he was a cunt.”
12
Harry took the noon flight out of New Orleans the next day. He had tried to offer Solomon and Dale some money for their many kindnesses, but of course they wouldn’t take a cent, and Harry knew that to press them would only cause discomfort, so he made his thanks and gave them his card before going back to a rainy, gray New York.
When he got home, he was pleased to find everything just the way he liked it. His apartment was chaotic, and his kitchen was littered with beer cans and boxes of Chinese food that had turned into little ecosystems of mold. He left it all for another day. What he wanted most was some more sleep, this time he hoped without the potentially fatal dreams. He took off his jacket and s
hoes as he staggered to the bed, and dropped down onto it. He was barely in the process of pulling up the cover when sleep overwhelmed him and he sank into its depths unresisting.
After sleeping almost twenty-six hours, Harry slowly allowed his aching body to familiarize itself with the state of wakefulness, and after a healthy interlude of inner debating he got up out of bed and made his bleary-eyed way into the bathroom.
As the water poured over him, Harry imagined that it cleaned him not only of his body’s naturally collected oils but also of the events of the past few days. And as the water did its best to sluice away Harry’s memories, his thoughts went to his wounds. He looked down and saw that his thighs looked almost totally healed, though he knew he was going to have a couple of shiny new scars to show for it. All in a day’s work, he thought.
A half hour later—showered, dressed in clean clothes, and carrying a comfortably concealed, fully loaded revolver—he was out on the street, heading toward Norma’s place. He had much to tell her. The rainstorm had moved on, and the city sparkled in the late summer sun.
His mood was good, even optimistic, which was rare. Goode may have lied about more than a few things, but at least the money in his lockbox was real and, because of it, Harry could finally pay the back rent he owed—three months’ at least, perhaps four—and maybe even buy a pair of shoes that didn’t leak. But after that, he’d be back to square one.
The problem with being a P.I. whose career was periodically hijacked by forces beyond his control wasn’t that unnatural forces left him covered in dust and blood; it was the fact that they typically didn’t pay well. That said, there was an undeniable pleasure to be had from knowing something about his beloved city’s secret life that other people didn’t, mysteries that the expensive beauties who gave him chilly looks if they caught his admiring gaze, or the high-octane executives with their thousand-dollar haircuts, would live and die never knowing.