horrific and bizarre will find a feast herein, including
much unfamiliar material. The general reader will also
find a number of surprises and perhaps some unexpected
illumination about literary types and literary politics.
This work challenges the notion that the supernatural in
fiction has in modem times been supplanted by the
psychological, the idea that horror is dead.
Horror is one of the dominant literary modes of our
time, a vigorous and living body of literature that
continues to evolve and thrill us with the mystery and
wonder of the unknown. This book explores where it has
been and represents some of its finest accomplishments
to date. Vampires, ghosts and witches still plague us,
along with many less nameable monsters— including, at
times, ourselves.
Read on, in fear and wonder.
David G. Hartwell
22
C live B arker (b . 1 9 5 2 )
In The Hills, The Cities
C live Barker, originally from Liverpool, now residing in
Southern C alifornia, was the m ost exciting new horror
w riter to enter the horror field in the early 1980s. His
six-volum e The Books of Blood (1 9 8 4 -8 5 ) galvanized the
attention of horror readers and instantly drew praise from
Stephen King. Ram sey Cam pbell and Reter Straub, establishing B arker as their peer. H e im m ediately turned to the novel form and produced a string o f best-sellers, beginning
with The Damnation Game (1 9 8 5 ) and continuing today.
H e is one of the w orld’s best-known horror w riters. His
background was in theater, and he becam e at the same
tim e a film m aker o f considerable popularity, specializing in
the horror genre. His m ajor influences are not the literature,
but comics and film s. His main preoccupations are with the
religious and philosophical meanings o f sex and violence.
H e w rites quickly and strives for powerful effects over
polish and structure— which he frequently achieves. N ow here m ore so than in “ In The Hills, The C ities.” If not his best story, it is certainly his most m em orable to date.
B arker creates a fantastic, mythic im age that relates more
closely to the stories o f E.T.A. Hoffm an than to m ore recent
literature. It is also consistent with the direction his films
and novels have taken in the last five years and so perhaps
best represents B arker's strengths.
24
Clive Barker
It wasn’t until the first week of the Yugoslavian trip that
Mick discovered what a political bigot he’d chosen as
a lover. Certainly, he’d been warned. One of the queens
at the Baths had told him Judd was to the Right of Attila
the Hun, but the man had been one of Judd’s ex-affairs,
and Mick had presumed there was more spite than
perception in the character assassination.
If only he’d listened. Then he wouldn’t be driving
along an interminable road in a Volkswagen that suddenly seemed the size of a coffin, listening to Judd’s views on Soviet expansionism. Jesus, he was so boring. He didn’t
converse, he lectured, and endlessly. In Italy the sermon
had been on the way the Communists had exploited the
peasant vote. Now, in Yugoslavia, Judd had really
warmed to this theme, and Mick was just about ready to
take a hammer to his self-opinionated head.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with everything Judd said.
Some of the arguments (the ones Mick understood)
seemed quite sensible. But then, what did he know? He
was a dance teacher. Judd was a journalist, a professional
pundit. He felt, like most journalists Mick had encountered, that he was obliged to have an opinion on everything under the sun. Especially politics; that was the best trough to wallow in. You could get your snout, eyes, head
and front hooves in that mess of muck and have a fine
old time splashing around. It was an inexhaustible
subject to devour, a swill with a little of everything in it,
because everything, according to Judd, was political.
The arts were political. Sex was political. Religion,
commerce, gardening, eating, drinking and farting— all
political.
Jesus, it was mind-blowingly boring; killingly, love-
deadeningly boring.
Worse still, Judd didn’t seem to notice how bored
Mick had become, or if he noticed, he didn’t care. He
just rambled on, his arguments getting windier and
windier, his sentences lengthening with every mile they
drove.
In The Hills, The Cities
25
Judd, Mick had decided, was a selfish bastard, and as
soon as their honeymoon was over he’d part with the
guy.
It was not until their trip, that endless, motiveless
caravan through the graveyards of mid-European culture, that Judd realized what a political lightweight he had in Mick. The guy showed precious little interest in
the economics or the politics of the countries they passed
through. He registered indifference to the full facts
behind the Italian situation, and yawned, yes, yawned
when he tried (and failed) to debate the Russian threat to
world peace. He had to face the bitter truth: Mick was a
queen; there was no other word for him; all right,
perhaps he didn’t mince or wear jewelry to excess, but he
was a queen nevertheless, happy to wallow in a dreamworld of early Renaissance frescoes and Yugoslavian icons. The complexities, the contradictions, even the
agonies that made those cultures blossom and wither
were just tiresome to him. His mind was no deeper than
his looks; he was a well-groomed nobody.
Some honeymoon.
The road south from Belgrade to Novi Pazar was, by
Yugoslavian standards, a good one. There were fewer
potholes than on many of the roads they’d travelled, and
it was relatively straight. The town of Novi Pazar lay in
the valley of the River Raska, south of the city named
after the river. It wasn’t an area particularly popular with
the tourists. Despite the good road it was still inaccessible, and lacked sophisticated amenities; but Mick was determined to see the monastery at Sopocani, to the west
of the town and after some bitter argument, he’d won.
The journey had proved uninspiring. On either side of
the road the cultivated fields looked parched and dusty.
The summer had been unusually hot, and droughts were
affecting many of the villages. Crops had failed, and
livestock had been prematurely slaughtered to prevent
26
Clive Barker
them dying of malnutrition. There was a defeated look
about the few faces they glimpsed at the roadside. Even
the children had dour expressions; brows as heavy as the
stale heat that hung over the valley.
Now, with the cards on the table after a row at
Belgrade, they drove in silence most of the time; but the
straight road, like most straight roads, invited dispute.
When the driving was easy, the mind rooted for something to keep it engaged. What better than a fight?
“Why the hell do you want to see this damn monastery?” Judd demanded.
&nb
sp; It was an unmistakable invitation.
“We’ve come all this way . . .” Mick tried to keep the
tone conversational. He wasn’t in the mood for an
argument.
“More fucking Virgins, is it?”
Keeping his voice as even as he could, Mick picked up
the Guide and read aloud from it: “. . . there, some of
the greatest works of Serbian painting can still be seen
and enjoyed, including what many commentators agree
to be the enduring masterpiece of the Raska school: ‘The
Dormition of the Virgin.’ ”
Silence.
Then Judd: “I’m up to here with churches.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“They’re all masterpieces according to that bloody
book.”
Mick felt his control slipping.
“Two and a half hours at most— ”
“I told you, I don’t want to see another church; the
smell of the places makes me sick. Stale incense, old
sweat and lies . . . ”
“It’s a short detour; then we can get back on to the
road and you can give me another lecture on farming
subsidies in the Sandzak.”
“I’m just trying to get some decent conversation going
instead of this endless tripe about Serbian fucking masterpieces— ”
In The Hills, The Cities
27
“Stop the car!”
“What?”
“Stop the car!”
Judd pulled the Volkswagen into the side of the road.
Mick got out.
The road was hot, but there was a slight breeze. He
took a deep breath, and wandered into the middle of the
road. Empty of traffic and of pedestrians in both directions. In every direction, empty. The hills shimmered in the heat off the fields. There were wild poppies growing
in the ditches. Mick crossed the road, squatted on his
haunches and picked one.
Behind him he heard the VW’s door slam.
“What did you stop us for?” Judd said. His voice was
edgy, still hoping for that argument, begging for it.
Mick stood up, playing with the poppy. It was close to
seeding, late in the season. The petals fell from the
receptacle as soon as he touched them, little splashes of
red fluttering down on to the grey tarmac.
“I asked you a question,” Judd said again.
Mick looked around. Judd was standing on the far side
of the car, his brows a knitted line of burgeoning anger.
But handsome; oh yes; a face that made women weep
with frustration that he was gay. A heavy black moustache (perfectly trimmed) and eyes you could watch forever, and never see the same light in them twice. Why
in God’s name, thought Mick, does a man as fine as that
have to be such an insensitive little shit?
Judd returned the look of contemptuous appraisal,
staring at the pouting pretty boy across the road. It made
him want to puke, seeing the little act Mick was performing for his benefit. It might just have been plausible in a sixteen-year-old virgin. In a twenty-five-year-old, it
lacked credibility.
Mick dropped the flower, and untucked his T-shirt
from his jeans. A tight stomach, then a slim, smooth
chest were revealed as he pulled it off. His hair was
ruffled when his head reappeared, and his face wore a
28
Clive Barker
broad grin. Judd looked at the torso. Neat, not too
muscular. An appendix scar peering over his faded jeans.
A gold chain, small but catching the sun, dipped in the
hollow of his throat. Without meaning to, he returned
Mick’s grin, and a kind of peace was made between
them.
Mick was unbuckling his belt.
“Want to fuck?” he said, the grin not faltering.
“ It’s no use,” came an answer, though not to that
question.
“What isn’t?”
“We’re not compatible.”
“Want a bet?”
Now he was unzipped, and turning away towards the
wheat field that bordered the road.
Judd watched as Mick cut a swathe through the
swaying sea, his back the color of the grain, so that he
was almost camouflaged by it. It was a dangerous game,
screwing in the open air—this wasn’t San Francisco, or
even Hampstead Heath. Nervously, Judd glanced along
the road. Still empty in both directions. And Mick was
turning, deep in the field, turning and smiling and
waving like a swimmer buoyed up in a golden surf. What
the hell . . . there was nobody to see, nobody to know.
Just the hills, liquid in the heat-haze, their forested backs
bent to the business of the earth, and a lost dog, sitting at
the edge of the road, waiting for some lost master.
Judd followed Mick’s path through the wheat, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. Field mice ran ahead of him, scurrying through the stalks as the giant came their
way, his feet like thunder. Judd saw their panic, and
smiled. He meant no harm to them, but then how were
they to know that? Maybe he’d put out a hundred lives,
mice, beetles, worms, before he reached the spot where
Mick was lying, stark bollock naked, on a bed of trampled grain, still grinning.
It was good love they made, good, strong love, equal in
pleasure for both; there was a precision to their passion,
In The Hills, The Cities
29
sensing the moment when effortless delight became
urgent, when desire became necessity. They locked together, limb around limb, tongue around tongue, in a knot only orgasm could untie, their backs alternately
scorched and scratched as they rolled around exchanging
blows and kisses. In the thick of it, creaming together,
they heard the phut-phut-phut of a tractor passing by;
but they were past caring.
They made their way back to the Volkswagen with
body-threshed wheat in their hair and their ears, in their
socks and between their toes. Their grins had been
replaced with easy smiles: the truce, if not permanent,
would last a few hours at least.
The car was baking hot, and they had to open all the
windows and doors to let the breeze cool it before they
started towards Novi Pazar. It was four o’clock, and
there was still an hour’s driving ahead.
As they got into the car Mick said, “We’ll forget the
monastery, eh?”
Judd gaped.
“I thought— ”
“ I couldn’t bear another fucking Virgin— ”
They laughed lightly together, then kissed, tasting each
other and themselves, a mingling of saliva, and the
aftertaste of salt semen.
The following day was bright, but not particularly warm.
No blue skies: just an even layer of white cloud. The
morning air was sharp in the lining of the nostrils, like
ether, or peppermint.
Vaslav Jelovsek watched the pigeons in the main
square of Popolac courting death as they skipped and
fluttered ahead of the vehicles that were buzzing around.
Some about military business, some civilian. An air of
sober intention barely suppressed the excitement he felt
on this day, an excitement he knew was share
d by every
man, woman and child in Popolac. Shared by the
pigeons too for all he knew. Maybe that was why they
30
Clive Barker
played under the wheels with such dexterity, knowing
that on this day of days no harm could come to them.
He scanned the sky again, that same white sky he’d
been peering at since dawn. The cloud-layer was low; not
ideal for the celebrations. A phrase passed through his
mind, an English phrase he’d heard from a friend, “to
have your head in the clouds.” It meant, he gathered, to
be lost in a reverie, in a white, sightless dream. That, he
thought wryly, was all the West knew about clouds, that
they stood for dreams. It took a vision they lacked to
make a truth out of that casual turn of phrase. Here, in
these secret hills, wouldn’t they create a spectacular
reality from those idle words? A living proverb.
A head in the clouds.
Already the first contingent was assembling in the
square. There were one or two absentees owing to illness,
but the auxiliaries were ready and waiting to take their
places. Such eagerness! Such wide smiles when an auxiliary heard his or her name and number called and was taken out of line to join the limb that was already taking
shape. On every side, miracles of organization. Everyone
with a job to do and a place to go. There was no shouting
or pushing: indeed, voices were scarcely raised above an
eager whisper. He watched in admiration as the work of
positioning and buckling and roping went on.
It was going to be a long and arduous day. Vaslav had
been in the square since an hour before dawn, drinking
coffee from imported plastic cups, discussing the half-
hourly meteorological reports coming in from Pristina
and Mitrovica, and watching the starless sky as the grey
light of morning crept across it. Now he was drinking his
sixth coffee of the day, and it was still barely seven
o’clock. Across the square Metzinger looked as tired and
as anxious as Vaslav felt.
They’d watched the dawn seep out of the east together.
Metzinger and he. But now they had separated, forgetting previous companionship, and would not speak until
In The Hilis, The Cities
31
the contest was over. After all Metzinger was from
Podujevo. He had his own city to support in the coming
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