Books Of Blood Vol 1

by Clive Barker

  ‘Yes.. . it would have been polite,’ he said.

  ‘Again, my apologies. I wanted a word with—‘ his eyes, so deep-set they were unfathomable, were on Diane ‘— your star,’ he said.

  Galloway could practically feel Diane’s ego expand at the word. The approach confounded him: had Lichfield undergone a volte-face? Was he coming here, the repentant admirer, to kneel at the feet of greatness?

  ‘I would appreciate a word with the lady in private, if that were possible,’ the mellow voice went on.

  ‘Well, we were just —‘

  ‘Of course,’ Diane interrupted. ‘Just allow me a mo-ment, would you?’

  She was immediately on top of the situation, tears forgotten.

  ‘I’ll be just outside,’ said Lichfield, already taking his leave.

  Before he had closed the door behind him Diane was in front of the mirror, tissue-wrapped finger skirting her eye to divert a rivulet of mascara.

  ‘Well,’ she was cooing, ‘how lovely to have a well-wisher. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘His name’s Lichfield,’ Galloway told her. ‘He used to be a trustee of the theatre.’

  ‘Maybe he wants to offer me something.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a drag Terence,’ she snarled. ‘You just can’t bear to have anyone else get any attention, can you?’

  ‘My mistake.’

  She peered at her eyes.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’m sorry about before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Oh... yes.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the pub, eh?’

  He was summarily dismissed apparently, his function as lover or confidante no longer required.

  In the chilly corridor outside the dressing room Lichfield was waiting patiently. Though the lights were better here than on the ill-lit stage, and he was closer now than he’d been the night before, Galloway could still not quite make out the face under the wide brim. There was something

  — what was the idea buzzing in his head? — something artificial about Lichfield’s features. The flesh of his face didn’t move as interlocking system of muscle and tendon, it was too stiff, too pink, almost like scar-tissue.

  ‘She’s not quite ready,’ Galloway told him.

  ‘She’s a lovely woman,’ Lichfield purred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t blame you...‘

  ‘Um.’

  ‘She’s no actress though.’

  ‘You’re not going to interfere are you, Lichfield? I won’t let you.’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  The voyeuristic pleasure Lichfield had plainly taken in his embarrassment made Galloway less respectful than he’d been.

  ‘I won’t have you upsetting her —‘

  ‘My interests are your interests, Terence. All I want to do is see this production prosper, believe me. Am I likely, under those circumstances, to alarm your Leading Lady? I’ll be as meek as a lamb, Terence.’

  ‘Whatever you are,’ came the testy reply, ‘you’re no lamb.’

  The smile appeared again on Lichfield’s face, the tissue round his mouth barely stretching to accommodate his expression.

  Galloway retired to the pub with that predatory sickle of teeth fixed in his mind, anxious for no reason he could focus upon.

  In the mirrored cell of her dressing-room Diane Duvall was just about ready to play her scene. ‘You may come in now, Mr Lichfield,’ she announced. He was in the doorway before the last syllable of his name had died on her lips.

  ‘Miss Duvall,’ he bowed slightly in deference to her. She smiled; so courteous. ‘Will you please forgive my blundering in earlier on?’

  She looked coy; it always melted men.

  ‘Mr Galloway—‘ she began.

  ‘A very insistent young man, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not above pressing his attentions on his Leading Lady, perhaps?’

  She frowned a little, a dancing pucker where the plucked arches of her brows converged.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Most unprofessional of him,’ Lichfield said. ‘But for-give me — an understandable ardour.’

  She moved upstage of him, towards the lights of her mirror, and turned, knowing they would back-light her hair more flatteringly.

  ‘Well, Mr Lichfield, what can I do for you?’

  ‘This is frankly a delicate matter,’ said Lichfield. ‘The bitter fact is — how shall I put this? — your talents are not ideally suited to this production. Your style lacks delicacy.’

  There was a silence for two beats. She sniffed, thought about the inference of the remark, and then moved out of centre-stage towards the door. She didn’t like the way this scene had begun. She was expecting an admirer, and instead she had a critic on her hands.

  ‘Get out!’ she said, her voice like slate.

  ‘Miss Duvall—‘

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘You’re not comfortable as Viola, are you?’ Lichfield continued, as though the star had said nothing. ‘None of your bloody business,’ she spat back.

  ‘But it is. I saw the rehearsals. You were bland, unpersuasive. The comedy is flat, the reunion scene —it should break our hearts — is leaden.’

  ‘I don’t need your opinion, thank you.’

  ‘You have no style —‘

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘No presence and no style. I’m sure on the television you are radiance itself, but the stage requires a special truth, a soulfulness you, frankly, lack.’

  The scene was hotting up. She wanted to hit him, but she couldn’t find the proper motivation. She couldn’t take this faded poseur seriously. He was more musical comedy than melodrama, with his neat grey gloves, and his neat grey cravat. Stupid, waspish queen, what did he know about acting?

  ‘Get out before I call the Stage Manager,’ she said, but he stepped between her and the door.

  A rape scene? Was that what they were playing? Had he got the hots for her? God forbid.

  ‘My wife,’ he was saying, ‘has played Viola —‘

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘— and she feels she could breathe a little more life into the role than you.’

  ‘We open tomorrow,’ she found herself replying, as though defending her presence. Why the hell was she trying to reason with him; barging in here and making these terrible remarks. Maybe because she was just a little afraid. His breath, close to her now, smelt of expensive chocolate.

  ‘She knows the role by heart.’

  ‘The part’s mine. And I’m doing it. I’m doing it even if I’m the worst Viola in theatrical history, all right?’

  She was trying to keep her composure, but it was difficult. Something about him made her nervous. It wasn’t violence she feared from him: but she feared something.

  ‘I’m afraid I have already promised the part to my wife.’

  ‘What?’ she goggled at his arrogance.

  ‘And Constantia will play the role.’

  She laughed at the name. Maybe this was high comedy after all. Something from Sheridan or Wilde, arch, catty stuff. But he spoke with such absolute certainty. Constantia will play the role; as if it was all cut and dried.

  ‘I’m not discussing this any longer, Buster, so if your wife wants to play Viola she’ll have to do it in the fucking street. All right?’

  ‘She opens tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you deaf, or stupid, or both?’

  Control, an inner voice told her, you’re over-playing, losing your grip on the scene. Whatever scene this is.

  He stepped towards her, and the mirror lights caught the face beneath the brim full on. She hadn’t looked carefully enough when he first made his appearance: now she saw the deeply-etched lines, the gougings around his eyes and his mouth. It wasn’t flesh, she was sure of it. He was wearing latex appliances, and they were badly glued in
place. Her hand all but twitched with the desire to snatch at it and uncover his real face.

  Of course. That was it. The scene she was playing: the Unmasking.

  ‘Let’s see what you look like,’ she said, and her hand was at his cheek before he could stop her, his smile spreading wider as she attacked. This is what he wants, she thought, but it was too late for regrets or apologies. Her fingertips had found the line of the mask at the edge of his eye-socket, and curled round to take a better hold. She yanked.

  The thin veil of latex came away, and his true physiognomy was exposed for the world to see. Diane tried to back away, but his hand was in her hair. All she could do was look up into that all-but fleshless face. A few withered strands of muscle curled here and there, and a hint of a beard hung from a leathery flap at his throat, but all living tissue had long since decayed. Most of his face was simply bone: stained and worn.

  ‘I was not,’ said the skull, ‘embalmed. Unlike Constantia.’

  The explanation escaped Diane. She made no sound of protest, which the scene would surely have justified. All she could summon was a whimper as his hand-hold tightened, and he hauled her head back.

  ‘We must make a choice, sooner or later,’ said Lichfield, his breath smelling less like chocolate than profound putrescence, ‘between serving ourselves and serving our art.’

  She didn’t quite understand.

  ‘The dead must choose more carefully than the living. We cannot waste our breath, if you’ll excuse the phrase, on less than the purest delights. You don’t want art, I think. Do you?’

  She shook her head, hoping to God that was the expected response.

  ‘You want the life of the body, not the life of the imagination. And you may have it.’

  ‘Thank... you.’

  ‘If you want it enough, you may have it.’

  Suddenly his hand, which had been pulling on her hair so painfully, was cupped behind her head, and bringing her lips up to meet his. She would have screamed then, as his rotting mouth fastened itself on to hers, but his greeting was so insistent it quite took her breath away.

  Ryan found Diane on the floor of her dressing-room a few minutes before two. It was difficult to work out what had happened. There was no sign of a wound of any kind on her head or body, nor was she quite dead. She seemed to be in a coma of some kind. She had perhaps slipped, and struck her head as she fell. Whatever the cause, she was out for the count.

  They were hours away from a Final Dress Rehearsal and Viola was in an ambulance, being taken into Intensive Care.

  ‘The sooner they knock this place down, the better,’ said Hammersmith. He’d been drinking during office hours, something Galloway had never seen him do before. The whisky bottle stood on his desk beside a half-full glass. There were glass-marks ringing his accounts, and his hand had a bad dose of the shakes.

  ‘What’s the news from the hospital?’

  ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he said, staring at the glass. Galloway could have sworn he was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Hammersmith? How is she?’

  ‘She’s in a coma. But her condition is stable.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  Hammersmith stared up at Galloway, his erupting brows knitted in anger.

  ‘You runt,’ he said, ‘you were screwing her, weren’t you? Fancy yourself like that, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, Diane Duvall is worth a dozen of you. A dozen!’

  ‘Is that why you let this last production go on, Hammer-smith? Because you’d seen her, and you wanted to get your hot little hands on her?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’ve got your brain in your pants.’ He seemed genuinely offended by the inter-pretation Galloway had put on his admiration for Miss Duvall. ‘All right, have it your way. We still have no Viola.’

  ‘That’s why I’m cancelling,’ said Hammersmith, slowing down to savour the moment.

  It had to come. Without Diane Duvall, there would be no Twelfth Night; and maybe it was better that way.

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ said Hammersmith softly. ‘Come.’

  It was Lichfield. Galloway was almost glad to see that strange, scarred face. Though he had a lot of questions to ask of Lichfield, about the state he’d left Diane in, about their conversation together, it wasn’t an interview he was willing to conduct in front of Hammersmith. Besides, any half-formed accusations he might have had were countered by the man’s presence here. If Lichfield had attempted violence on Diane, for whatever reason, was it likely that he would come back so soon, so smilingly?

  ‘Who are you?’ Hammersmith demanded.

  ‘Richard Walden Lichfield.’

  ‘I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘I used to be a trustee of the Elysium.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I make it my business —, ‘What do you want?’ Hammersmith broke in, irritated by Lichfield’s poise.

  ‘I hear the production is in jeopardy,’ Lichfield replied, unruffled.

  ‘No jeopardy,’ said Hammersmith, allowing himself a twitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘No jeopardy at all, because there’s no show. It’s been cancelled.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lichfield looked at Galloway.

  ‘Is this with your consent?’ he asked.

  ‘He has no say in the matter; I have sole right of cancellation if circumstances dictate it; it’s in his contract. The theatre is closed as of today: it will not reopen.’ ‘Yes it will,’ said Lichfield.

  ‘What?’ Hammersmith stood up behind his desk, and Galloway realized he’d never seen the man standing before. He was very short.

  ‘We will play Twelfth Night as advertised,’ Lichfield purred. ‘My wife has kindly agreed to understudy the part of Viola in place of Miss Duvall.’

  Hammersmith laughed, a coarse, butcher’s laugh. It died on his lips however, as the office was suffused with lavender, and Constantia Lichfield made her entrance, shimmering in silk and fur. She looked as perfect as the day she died: even Hammersmith held his breath and his silence at the sight of her.

  ‘Our new Viola,’ Lichfield announced.

  After a moment Hammersmith found his voice. ‘This woman can’t step in at half a day’s notice.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Galloway, not taking his eyes off the woman. Lichfield was a lucky man; Constantia was an extraordinary beauty. He scarcely dared draw breath in her presence for fear she’d vanish.

  Then she spoke. The lines were from Act V, Scene I:

  ‘If nothing lets to make us happy both

  But this my masculine usurp’d attire,

  Do not embrace me till each circumstance

  Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump

  That I am Viola.’

  The voice was light and musical, but it seemed to resound in her body, filling each phrase with an under-current of suppressed passion.

  And that face. It was wonderfully alive, the features playing the story of her speech with delicate economy.

  She was enchanting.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hammersmith, ‘but there are rules and regulations about this sort of thing. Is she Equity?’

  ‘No,’ said Lichfield. ‘Well you see, it’s impossible. The union strictly pre-cludes this kind of thing. They’d flay us alive.’

  ‘What’s it to you, Hammersmith?’ said Galloway. ‘What the fuck do you care? You’ll never need set foot in a theatre again once this place is demolished.’

  ‘My wife has watched the rehearsals. She is word perfect.’

  ‘It could be magic,’ said Galloway, his enthusiasm firing up with every moment he looked at Constantia.

  ‘You’re risking the Union, Galloway,’ Hammersmith chided.

  ‘I’ll take that risk.’

  ‘As you say, it’s nothing to me. But if a little bird was to tell them, you’d have egg on your face.’

  ‘Hammersmith: give her a chance. Give all of us a chance. If Equity blacks me, that’s my l
ook-out.’ Hammersmith sat down again.

  ‘Nobody’ll come, you know that, don’t you? Diane Duvall was a star; they would have sat through your turgid production to see her, Galloway. But an unknown… Well, it’s your funeral. Go ahead and do it, I wash my hands of the whole thing. It’s on your head Galloway, remember that. I hope they flay you for it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lichfield. ‘Most kind.’ Hammersmith began to rearrange his desk, to give more prominence to the bottle and the glass. The interview was over: he wasn’t interested in these butterifies any longer.

  ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Just go away.’

  ‘I have one or two requests to make,’ Lichfield told Galloway as they left the office. ‘Alterations to the pro-duction which would enhance my wife’s performance.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘For Constantia’s comfort, I would ask that the lighting levels be taken down substantially. She’s simply not accustomed to performing under such hot, bright lights.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I’d also request that we install a row of footlights.’

  ‘Footlights?’

  ‘An odd requirement, I realize, but she feels much happier with footlights.’

  ‘They tend to dazzle the actors,’ said Galloway. ‘It becomes difficult to see the audience.’

  ‘Nevertheless... I have to stipulate their installation.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thirdly — I would ask that all scenes involving kissing, embracing or otherwise touching Constantia be re-directed to remove every instance of physical contact whatsoever.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘For God’s sake why?’

  ‘My wife needs no business to dramatize the working of the heart, Terence.’

  That curious intonation on the word ‘heart’. Working of the heart.

  Galloway caught Constantia’s eye for the merest of moments. It was like being blessed.

  ‘Shall we introduce our new Viola to the company?’ Lichfield suggested.

  ‘Why not?’

  The trio went into the theatre.

  The re-arranging of the blocking and the business to exclude any physical contact was simple. And though the rest of the cast were initially wary of their new colleague, her unaffected manner and her natural grace soon had them at her feet. Besides, her presence meant that the show would go on.