by Clive Barker
"Don't like the sight of blood, either, huh?" Howie said.
As he retreated something about Fletcher's appearance altered, too subtle for Howie to quite grasp. Was it that he'd backed away into a patch of sunlight, and that it somehow pierced him? Or that a piece of sky locked in his belly came undone and floated up into his eyes? Whatever, it was there and gone.
"I'll make a deal," Howie said.
"What's that?"
"You leave me alone; I'll leave you—"
"There's only us, son. Against the whole world."
"You're fucking crazy, you know that?" Howie said. He took his eyes off Fletcher and set them on the route he'd come. "That's where I got it from. This holy fool shit! Well, not me! No more. I've got people who love me!"
"I love you!" Fletcher said.
"Liar."
"All right, then I'll learn. "
Howie started away from him, his bloody arm outstretched.
"I can learn!" he heard his father call from behind him. "Howard, listen to me! I can learn!"
He didn't run. He didn't have the strength. But he reached the road without falling down, which was a victory of mind over matter, given how weak his legs felt. There he rested for a short time, content that Fletcher wouldn't follow him into such open territory. The man had secrets he didn't want mere human eyes to see. While resting, he planned. First he'd return to the motel, and tend to his hand. Then? Back to Jo-Beth's house. He had good news to impart, and he'd find a way to tell it if he had to wait all night for the opportunity.
The sun was hot and bright. It threw his shadow in front of him as he went. He fixed his eyes on the sidewalk, and followed his pattern there, step for step, back towards sanity.
In the woods behind him, Fletcher cursed his inadequacy. He'd never been much good at persuasion, leaping from banality to visions with no proper grasp of the middle ground between: the simple social skills which most people were proficient in by the age of ten. He had failed to win his son over by straightforward argument, and Howard in his turn had resisted the revelations which might have made him comprehend his father's jeopardy. Not just his; the world's. Not for an instant did Fletcher doubt that the Jaff was as dangerous now as he'd been back in the Misión de Santa Catrina, when the Nuncio had first rarefied him. More so. He had his agents in the Cosm; children who would obey him because he had a way with words. Howard was heading back into the embrace of one of those agents even now. As good as lost. Which left him with no alternative but to go into the Grove on his own, and look for people from whom he might raise hallucigenia.
There was no value in putting off the moment. He had a few hours before dusk, when the day turned towards darkness, and the Jaff would have an even greater advantage than he had already. Even though he didn't much like the idea of walking the streets of the Grove for all to see and study, what choice did he have? Maybe there would be a few he could catch dreaming, even in the light of day.
He looked up at the sky, and thought of his room in the Mission, in which he'd sat with Raul for so many blissful hours, listening to Mozart and watching the clouds change as they came off the ocean. Changing, always changing. A flux of forms in which they'd find echoes of earthly things: a tree, a dog, a human face. One day, he would join those clouds, when his war with the Jaff was over. Then the sadness of parting he felt now—Raul gone, Howard gone, everything sliding away from him—would be extinguished.
Only the fixed felt pain. The protean lived in everything, always. One country, living one immortal day.
Oh, to be there!
VII
FOR William Witt, Palomo Grove's Boswell, the morning had seen his worst nightmare become reality. He'd stepped out of his attractive, one-story residence in Stillbrook, which he boasted to clients had appreciated by thirty thousand dollars in the five years since he'd purchased, to do a normal day's real estate business in his favorite town on earth. But things were different this morning. Had he been asked to say what exactly, he couldn't have offered a cogent answer, but he knew by instinct that his beloved Grove was sickening. He spent most of the morning standing at the window of his offices, which looked directly across at the supermarket. Almost everybody in the Grove used the market at least once a week; it had for many the double function of suppliers and meeting place. William prided himself on the fact that he could name fully ninety-eight percent of the people who entered its doors. He'd been instrumental in finding houses for a good number of them; rehousing them when their families outgrew their first purchase as newlyweds; often rehousing those in middle-age when the children left; finally selling houses on when the occupants died. And he in turn was known by most of them. They called him by his first name, they commented on his bow ties (which were his trademark; he owned one hundred and eleven), they introduced him to visiting friends.
But today, as he watched from his window, he took no joy in the ritual. Was it simply the fact of Buddy Vance's death, and the tragedy that had come as its consequence, that subdued folks so mightily; that kept them from greeting each other as they passed on the parking lot? Or was it that they, like he, had woken with a strange expectation, as though some event was in the offing that they'd neglected to write in their diaries, but at which they'd be sorely missed were they not to attend.
Simply standing and watching, unable to interpret what he saw or felt, dragged his spirits to their knees. He decided to go on a round of appraisals. There were three houses—two in Deerdell, one in Windbluff—that needed looking over, and prices determined. His anxiety didn't diminish as he drove over to Deerdell. The sun that beat on the sidewalks and the lawns beat to bruise; the air above shimmered as if to dissolve brick and slate: to take his precious Grove away entirely.
The two properties in Deerdell were in very different states of repair; both required his full attention as he went through them, totting up their merits and demerits. By the time he'd finished with them, and begun towards the Wind-bluff house, he'd been long enough distracted from his fears to think that maybe he'd been over-reacting. The task ahead, he knew, would afford him considerable pleasure. The house on Wild Cherry Glade, just below the Crescents, was large and desirable. He was already creating the Better Homes Bulletin pitch as he stepped from the car:
Be King of the Hill! The perfect family home is waiting for you!
He selected the front door key from the two on the ring, and opened up. Legal wrangles had kept the property empty and off the market since the spring; the air inside was dusty and stale. He liked the smell. There was something about empty places that touched him. He liked to think of them as homes in waiting; blank canvases upon which buyers would paint their own particular paradise. He wandered through the house, making meticulous notes in each room, turning seductive phrases over in his head as he went:
Spacious and Immaculate. A Home to Delight even the Choosiest Buyer. 3 Bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, with Terrazzo floors, Birch panelling in formal living room, kitchen fully equipped, covered patio . . .
Given its size and location the house would, he knew, command a good price. Having made a circuit of the lower floor he unlocked the yard door and stepped outside. The houses, even on the lower parts of the Hill, were well spread. The yard was not overlooked by either of the neighbors' houses. Had it been, they might well have complained of its condition. The lawn was shin-high, patchy and sere; the trees needed cutting back. He walked across the sun-baked ground to measure the pool. It had not been drained after Mrs. Lloyd, who'd owned the property, had died. The water was low, its surface encrusted with an algae greener than the grass which sprang between the tiling at the pool's edge. It smelt rank. Rather than linger to measure the pool, he guessed its dimensions, knowing his practiced eye was virtually as accurate as his tape. He was jotting the figures down when a ripple started in the center of the pool, crawling over the sluggish surface towards him. He stepped away from the edge, making a note to get the Pool Services up here soonest. Whatever was breeding in the filth—fungus or fish—cou
ld count their teeming tenancy in hours.
The water moved again; darting motions that put him in mind of another day entirely, and of another body of haunted water. He put the memory from his head—or at least tried to—and, turning his back on the pool, began towards the house. But the memory had been too long alone; it insisted on going with him. He could see the four girls—Carolyn, Trudi, Joyce and Arleen, lovely Arleen—as clearly as if it were just yesterday he'd spied on them. He watched them in his mind's eyes, stripping off their clothes. He heard their chatter; their laughter.
He stopped walking, and glanced back at the pool. The soup was once more still. Whatever it had bred or was a bed for had gone back to sleep. He glanced at his watch. He'd been away from the office only an hour and three quarters. If he picked up his pace and finished here quickly, he could slip back home for a while, and watch a video from his collection. The notion, fuelled in part by the erotic recollections the pool had stirred, took him back into the house with renewed zeal. He locked up the back, and started upstairs.
Halfway up, a noise from above brought him to a halt.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
There was no reply, but the noise came again. He made his demand a second time; a dialogue of question and sound, question and sound. Were there children in the house, perhaps? Breaking into empty properties, which had been a fad some years before, was once again on the increase. This was the first time he'd had the opportunity to catch a culprit in the act of trespass however.
"Are you coming down?" he said, giving as much basso profundo to his question as he could muster. "Or am I coming up to bring you down?"
The only reply was the same skittering sound he'd heard twice already, like a small dog with undipped nails running over a hardwood floor.
So be it, William thought. He began up the stairs again, making his steps as heavy as possible to intimidate the trespassers. He knew most of the Grove's children by their names and nicknames. Those that he didn't he could readily point out in the schoolyard. He'd make an example of them, and so dissuade further offenders.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs all was silent. The afternoon sun poured through the window, its warmth calming what small anxiety ticked in him. There was no danger here. Danger was a midnight street in L.A., and the sound of a knife scraping brick as someone came in pursuit. This was the Grove, on a sunny Friday afternoon.
As if to confirm that thought a wind-up toy came scuttling through the green door of the master bedroom; a foot-and-a-half-long white centipede, its plastic feet tapping the floor in rhythm. He smiled at the gesture. The child was sending his toy out to signal surrender. Smiling indulgently, William stooped to pick it up, his eyes on the floor through the door.
His gaze flickered back to the toy as his fingers made contact, however, his touch confirming what sight comprehended too late to act upon: that the thing he was picking up was not a toy at all. Its shell was soft, hot and damp beneath his hand, its peristaltic motion repulsive. He tried to let it go but its body adhered to his hand, working against his palm. Dropping notebook and pencil, he snatched the creature from one hand with the other, and threw it down. It fell on its segmented back, its dozen legs pedalling like an overturned shrimp. Gasping, he staggered back against the wall, until a voice from beyond the door said:
"Don't stand on ceremony. You're welcome inside."
The speaker was no child, William realized, but then he'd decided several seconds ago that his first scenario had been optimistic.
"Mr. Witt," said a second voice. It was lighter than the first; and recognizable.
"Tommy-Ray?" William said, unable to disguise the relief he felt. "Is that you, Tommy-Ray?"
"Sure is. Come on in. Meet the gang."
"What's going on here?" William said, stepping clear of the struggling beast and pushing open the door. Mrs. Lloyd's chintz drapes had been drawn against the sun, and after the blaze of light outside the room seemed doubly dark. But he could make out Tommy-Ray McGuire, standing in the middle of the room, and behind him, sitting in the darkest corner, another presence. One of them had been dipping in the rank water of the pool, it seemed; the sickly smell pricked William's sinuses.
"You shouldn't be in here," he chided Tommy-Ray. "Do you realize you're trespassing? This house—"
"You're not going to tell on us, are you?" said Tommy-Ray. He took a step towards William, eclipsing his colleague entirely.
"It's not that simple—" William began.
"Yes it is," said Tommy-Ray flatly. He took another step, and another, suddenly moving past William to the door, and slamming it. The sound excited Tommy-Ray's companion— or rather, his companion's companions—for William's eyes were now sufficiently accustomed to the murk to see that the bearded man slumped in the corner was swarming with creatures that bore a family resemblance to the centipede outside. They covered him like a living armor. They crawled over his face, lingering at his lips and eyes; they gathered around his groin, massaging him. They drank at his armpits, they cavorted on his stomach. There were so many of them his bulk was swelled to twice human size.
"Jesus Lord," said William.
"Unreal, huh?" said Tommy-Ray.
"You and Tommy-Ray know each other from way back, I hear," said the Jaff. "Tell all. Was he a considerate child?"
"What the hell is this?" William said, glancing back at Tommy-Ray. The youth's eyes gleamed as they roved.
"This is my father," came his reply. "This is the Jaff."
"We'd like you to show us the secret of your soul," said the Jaff.
Instantly, William thought of his private collection, locked up back at home. How did this obscenity know about that? Had Tommy-Ray spied on him? The peeper peeped upon?
William shook his head. "I don't have any secrets," he said softly.
"Probably right," said Tommy-Ray. "Boring little shit."
"Unkind," said the Jaff.
"Everybody says it," said Tommy-Ray. "Look at him, with his fucking bow ties and his little nods at everyone."
Tommy-Ray's words stung William. It was they as much as the sight of the Jaff which brought a tremor to his cheek.
"Most boring little shit in the whole fucking town," Tommy-Ray said.
In response the Jaff snatched one of the beasts from his belly and lobbed it at Tommy-Ray. His aim was true. The creature, which had tails like whips, and a minuscule head, fixed itself to Tommy-Ray's face, pressing its belly against his mouth. He lost his balance, toppling sideways as he clawed at the parasite. It came away from his face with a comical kissing sound, revealing Tommy-Ray's grin, which was echoed with laughter from the Jaff. Tommy-Ray tossed the creature back in its master's direction, a half-hearted throw which left the thing a foot from where William stood. He retreated from it, bringing a fresh sound of laughter from father and son.
"It won't harm you," the Jaff said. "Unless I want it to."
He called to the creature that he and the boy had made a game of; it skulked back to the comfort of the Jaff's belly.
"You probably know most of these folks," the Jaff said.
"Yeah," Tommy-Ray murmured. "And they know him."
"This one, for instance," the Jaff said, hauling a cat-sized beast from behind him. "This one came from that woman . . . what was her name, Tommy?"
"I don't remember."
The Jaff slid the creature, which resembled a vast bleached scorpion, around to his feet. The thing seemed almost shy; it wanted to retreat back to its hiding place.
"The woman with the dogs, Tommy—" the Jaff said. "Mildred something."
"Duffin," said William.
"Good! Good!" the Jaff said, jabbing a thick thumb in his direction. "Duffin! How easily we forget! Duffin!"
William knew Mildred. He'd seen her that very morning—minus the poodle pack—standing in the lot staring ahead of her as though she'd driven down here only to forget why she'd come. What she and the scorpion had in common was beyond him.
"I can se
e you're flummoxed, Witt," the Jaff said. "You're wondering: is this Mildred's new pet? The answer is no. The answer is, this is Mildred's deepest secret, made flesh. And that's what I want from you, William. The deep stuff. The secret stuff."
Red-blooded heterosexual voyeur that he was, William grasped instantly the cocksucking sub-text of the Jaff's request. He and Tommy-Ray weren't father and son, they were fucking each other. All this talk of the deep stuff, the secret stuff, was a veil over that.
"I don't want any part of this," William said. "Tommy-Ray'll tell you, I don't do any weird stuff."
"Nothing weird about fear," the Jaff said.
"Everybody's got it," Tommy-Ray put in.
"Some more than others. You . . . I suspect . . . more than most. 'Fess up, William. You've got some bad stuff in your head. I just want to take it out and make it mine."
More innuendo. William heard Tommy-Ray make a step in his direction.
"Keep your distance," William warned. It was pure bluff, and by the grin on Tommy-Ray's face he knew it.
"You'll feel better afterwards," said the Jaff.
"Much," said Tommy-Ray.
"It doesn't hurt. Well . . . maybe a little, at the start. But once you get the bad stuff out into the open you'll be a different person."
"Mildred was just one," said Tommy-Ray. "He visited a whole bunch last night."
"Sure I did."
"I pointed the way, and he went."
"I get a scent off some people, you know? I get a real strong scent."
"Louise Doyle . . . Chris Seapara . . . Harry O'Connor . . ."
William knew them all.
". . . Gunther Rothbery . . . Martine Nesbitt . . ."
"Martine had some really impressive sights to show," the Jaff said. "One of them's outside. Keeping cool."