by Clive Barker
"Give me a break!" Spilmont said. "Yeah, it was empty. Pool; house; garage. All empty."
"Then they skipped. They got away before you arrived. Only I don't see how. Tommy-Ray said the Jaff didn't like—"
"Enough!" said Spilmont. "I've got too many wackoes on the block without the likes of you. Straighten up, will you? And don't try this on any of the other guys, Witt. They're warned, see? Like I say: once is enough!"
Without signing off Spilmont terminated the call, leaving William to listen to the disconnected tone for fully half a minute before he let the receiver slip from his grasp.
"Who'd have thought?" the Jaff said, stroking his newest charge. "There's fear in the unlikeliest places."
"I want to hold it," said Tommy-Ray.
"Consider it yours," the Jaff said, allowing the youth to claim the terata from his arms. "What belongs to you belongs to me."
"It doesn't look much like Spilmont."
"Oh but it does," said the Jaff. "There was never a truer portrait of the man. This is his root. His core. A man's fear is what makes him what he is."
"Is that right?"
"What's walking out there tonight, calling itself Spilmont, is just the husk. The residue."
He wandered to the window as he spoke, and drew the drapes aside. The terata that had been fawning over him when William came visiting dogged his heels. He shooed them away. They retreated respectfully only to creep back into his shadow when he returned from them.
"The sun's almost gone," he said. "We should get going. Fletcher is already in the Grove."
"Yes?"
"Oh yes. He appeared in the middle of the afternoon."
"How do you know?"
"It's impossible to hate someone as much as I hate Fletcher without knowing his whereabouts."
"So do we go kill him?"
"When we've got enough assassins," the Jaff said. "I don't want any mistakes, like Mr. Witt."
"I'll fetch Jo-Beth first."
"Why bother?" said the Jaff. "We don't need her."
Tommy-Ray threw Spilmont's terata to the ground. "I need her," he said.
"It's purely Platonic, of course."
"What does that mean?"
"It's irony, Tommy-Ray. What I mean to say is: you want her body."
Tommy-Ray chewed on this a moment. Then said:
"Maybe."
"Be honest."
"I don't know what I want," came the reply, "but I sure as shit know what I don't want. I don't want that fucker Katz touching her. She's family, right? You told me that was important."
The Jaff nodded. "You're very persuasive," he said.
"So, we go fetch her?" Tommy-Ray said.
"If it's that important," his father replied. "Yes, we'll go and fetch her."
Seeing Palomo Grove for the first time Fletcher had come close to despair. He had passed through towns like this aplenty in his months of warfare with the Jaff; planned communities that had every facility but the facility to feel; places that gave every impression of life but in truth had little or none. Twice, cornered in such vacuums, he'd come close to being annihilated by his enemy. Though beyond superstition he nevertheless found himself wondering if the third time would prove fatal.
The Jaff had already established his bridgehead here, of that Fletcher had no doubt. It would not be difficult to find here the weak and unprotected souls he liked to batten upon. But for Fletcher, whose hallucigenia were born of rich and pungent dream lives, the town, withered by comfort and complacency, offered little hope of sustenance. He'd have had more luck in a ghetto or a madhouse, where life was lived close to the edge, than in this well-watered wasteland. But he had no choice. Without a human agent to point the way he was obliged to go among these people like a dog, sniffing for some hint of a dreamer. He found a few down at the Mall, but he was given short shrift when he attempted to engage them in conversation. Though he did his best to keep up some pretence of normality it was a long time since he'd been human. The people he approached stared at him strangely, as though there was some part of his performance he'd overlooked and they were able to see through to the Nunciate beneath. Seeing, they retreated. There were one or two who lingered in his vicinity. An old woman who stood a little way off from him and simply smiled whenever he looked her way; two children who gave up looking in the pet shop window to come and stare at him, until their mother called them to her side. The pickings were as thin as Fletcher had feared. Had the Jaff been able to choose their final battlefield personally he could not have chosen better. If the war between them was to finish in Palomo Grove—and in his gut Fletcher sensed that one of them would perish here—the Jaff would surely be the victor.
As evening came, and the Mall emptied, he too left it, wandering through the empty streets. There were no pedestrians. Not so much as a dog-walker. He knew why. The human sphere, willfully insensitive as it was, couldn't entirely block out the presence of supernatural forces in its midst. The inhabitants of the Grove, though they could not have put words to their anxiety, knew their town was haunted tonight, and were taking refuge beside their televisions. Fletcher could see the screens glimmering in home after home, the sound of each set turned up abnormally loud, as if to block any songs the sirens abroad tonight might sing. Rocked in the arms of game-show hosts and soap-opera queens, the little minds of the Grove were lulled into innocent sleep, leaving the creature that might have kept them from extinction locked out on the street, and alone.
X
____________ i ____________
WATCHING from the corner of the street as dusk deepened into night, Howie saw a man he would later know to be the Pastor appear at the McGuire house, announce himself through the closed door, and—after a pause for the unlocking of locks and unbolting of bolts— be received into the sanctuary. Another such diversion would not present itself tonight, he suspected. If there was to be any opportunity to slip past the guardian mother and reach Jo-Beth this was it. He crossed the street, checking first that nobody was coming in either direction. He needn't have feared. The street was uncommonly quiet. It was from the houses the din came: televisions turned up so loud he'd been able to distinguish nine channels playing while he'd waited; hummed along to theme tunes, laughed with pay-off lines. Unwitnessed, therefore, he slipped to the side of the house, clambered over the gate, and started down the passage to the backyard. As he did so the light in the kitchen was turned on. He backed away from the window. It wasn't Mrs. McGuire who'd entered however, but Jo-Beth, dutifully preparing some supper for her mother's guest. He watched her, mesmerized. Going about this commonplace activity in a plain, dark dress, lit by a neon strip, she was still the most extraordinary sight he'd ever seen. When she came close to the window, with tomatoes to rinse at the sink, he stepped out of hiding. She caught his movement, and looked up. His finger was already at his lips to hush her. She waved him away—panic on her face. He obeyed not an instant too soon, as her mother appeared at the kitchen door. There was a short exchange between them, which Howie didn't catch, then Mrs. McGuire returned to the lounge. Jo-Beth glanced over her shoulder to check that her mother had gone, then crossed to the back door, and gingerly unbolted it. She refused to open it sufficiently to give him access however. Instead she put her face to the gap and whispered:
"You shouldn't be here."
"Well I am," he said. "And you're glad I am."
"No I'm not."
"You should be. I've got news. Great news. Come outside."
"I can't do that," she whispered. "Keep your voice down."
"We have to talk. It's life or death. No . . . it's more than life or death."
"What have you done to yourself?" she said. "Look at your hand."
His attempt to clean the wound had been perfunctory at best, squeamish as he was about picking pieces of bark from the flesh.
"This is all part of it," he said. "If you won't come out, let me in."
"I can't."
"Please. Let me in."
Was it hi
s wound or his words that made her relent? Either way, she opened the door. He went to put his arms around her but she shook her head with such a look of terror on her face he backed off.
"Go upstairs," she said, not even whispering now but mouthing the word.
"Where?" he returned.
"Second door on the left," she said, obliged to raise her volume a little for these instructions. "My room. Pink door. Wait until I take the food through."
He wanted so much to kiss her. But instead he let her go about her preparations. With a glance in his direction, she headed through to the lounge. Howie heard an expression of welcome from the visitor, which he took as his cue to slip from the kitchen. There was a moment of danger when—visible at the lounge door—he hesitated before finding the stairs. Then he was away up them, hoping the exchange below would conceal the sound of his footfalls. It seemed they did. There was no change in the rhythm of the dialogue. He reached the pink door and took refuge behind it without incident.
Jo-Beth's bedroom! He'd not dared hope he'd be standing there, among these marshmallow colors, looking at the place where she slept and at the towel she used for showering and at her underwear. When she finally came up the stairs and entered behind him he felt like a thief interrupted in the act of stealing. She caught his embarrassment off him, a flushing sickness that left them avoiding each other's eyes.
"It's a mess," she said softly.
"It's OK," he said. "You weren't expecting me."
"No." She didn't move to hug him. She didn't even smile. "Momma would go mad if she knew you were here. All the time—when she was saying there were terrible things in the Grove—she was right. One of them came here last night, Howie. Came for me and Tommy-Ray."
"The Jaff?"
"You know about him?"
"Something came for me too. Not so much came as called. Fletcher his name is. He says he's my father."
"Do you believe him?"
"Yes," Howie said. "I believe him."
Jo-Beth's eyes were filling up. "Don't cry," he said. "Don't you see what all this means? We're not brother and sister. What's between us isn't wrong."
"It's us being together that caused all this," she said. "Don't you understand that? If we hadn't met—"
"But we did."
"If we hadn't met they'd never have come from wherever they came from."
"Isn't it better we know the truth about them—about ourselves? I don't give a fuck for their damn war. And I won't let it pull us apart."
He reached for her, and took hold of her right hand with his unwounded left. She didn't resist, but let his gentle pressure draw her closer. "We have to leave Palomo Grove," he said. "And leave together. Go somewhere they can't find us."
"What about Momma? Tommy-Ray's lost, Howie. She said so herself. That only leaves me to look after her."
"And what use are you if the Jaff gets to you?" Howie argued. "If we leave now, our fathers won't have anything to fight over."
"It's not just about us," Jo-Beth reminded him.
"No, you're right," he conceded, remembering what he'd learned from Fletcher. "It's about this place called Quiddity." His hold on her hand tightened. "We went there, you and me. Or almost went. I want to finish that trip—"
"I don't understand."
"You will. When we go we'll go knowing what kind of journey it is. It'll be like a waking dream." It occurred to him as he spoke that not once had he stumbled or stammered. "We're supposed to hate each other, you know? That was their plan—Fletcher and the Jaff—to have us continue their war. Only we're not going to."
For the first time, she smiled:
"No, we're not," she said.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"I love you, Jo-Beth."
"Howie—"
"Too late to stop me. I said it."
She kissed him suddenly, a small sweet stab which he sucked against his mouth before she could deny him, opening the seal of her lips with his tongue, which at that instant would have opened a safe had the taste of her mouth been locked up there. She pressed to him with a force which matched his own, their teeth touching, their tongues playing tag.
Her left hand, which had wrapped around him, now found his tender right and drew it towards her. He could feel the softness of her breast, despite the demure dress and his numbed fingers. He started to fumble with the buttons at her neck, undoing enough to slide his hand inside so that his flesh met hers. She smiled against his lips, and her hand, having guided him to where he'd be most good, went to the front of his jeans. The hard-on he'd begun to sport upon sight of her bed had gone west, bested by nerves. But her touch, and her kisses, which were one indistinguishable blur of mouth on mouth now, raised him again.
"I want to be naked," he said.
She took her lips off his.
"With them downstairs?" she said.
"They're occupied, aren't they?"
"They talk for hours."
"We'll need hours," he whispered.
"Do you have any kind of . . . protection?"
"We don't have to do everything. I just want that we can at least touch each other properly. Skin to skin."
She looked unpersuaded when she stepped back from him, but her actions belied her expression, as she proceeded to unbutton her dress. He started to strip off his jacket and T-shirt; then began the difficult task of unbuttoning his belt with one hand virtually useless. She came to his aid, doing the job for him.
"It's stifling in here," he said. "Can I open a window?"
"Momma locked them all. In case the Devil got in."
"He did," Howie quipped.
She looked up at him, her dress now open, her breasts bare.
"Don't say that," she said. Instinctively her hands went to cover her nakedness.
"You don't think I'm the Devil," he said. Then: ". . . do you?"
"I don't know if anything that feels this . . . this . . ."
"Say it."
". . . this forbidden . . . can be good for my soul," she replied with perfect seriousness.
"You'll see," he said, moving towards her. "I promise you. You'll see."
"I think I should speak to Jo-Beth," Pastor John said. He'd got past the point of humoring the McGuire woman once she started talking about the beast that had raped her all those years ago, and how it had come back to claim her son. Pontificating on abstractions was one thing (it drew female devotees to him in droves) but when the talk took a turn for the lunatic he beat a diplomatic retreat. Clearly Mrs. McGuire was verging on a mental breakdown. He needed a chaperone, or she might end up inventing all manner of overheated nonsense. It had happened before. He wouldn't be the first man of God to fall victim to a woman of a certain age.
"I don't want Jo-Beth to think about this any more than she has already," came the reply. "The creature that made her in me—"
"Her father was a man, Mrs. McGuire."
"I know that," she said, well aware of the condescension in his voice. "But people are flesh and spirit."
"Of course."
"The man made her flesh. But who made her spirit?"
"God in Heaven," he replied, grateful for this return to safer terrain. "And He made her flesh too, through the man you chose. Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father -which is in Heaven is perfect. "
"It wasn't God," Joyce replied. "I know it wasn't. The Jaff's nothing like God. You should see him. You'd know."
"If he exists then he's human, Mrs. McGuire. And I believe I should talk with Jo-Beth about his visit. If indeed he was here."
"He was here!" she said, her agitation increasing.
He stood up to detach the madwoman's hand from his sleeve.
"I'm sure Jo-Beth will have some valuable insights . . ." he said, taking a step back. "Why don't I fetch her?"
"You don't believe me," Joyce said. She was close to shouting now; and to tears.
"I do! But really . . . allow me a moment with Jo-Beth. Is she upstairs? I believe she is. Jo-Beth!
Are you there? Jo-Beth?"
"What does he want?" she said, breaking their kiss.
"Ignore him," said Howie.
"Suppose he comes looking for me?"
She sat up, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, listening for the sound of the Pastor's step on the stairs. Howie put his face against her back, reaching beneath her arm—his hand damming a trickle of sweat—and gently touching her breast. She made a small, almost agonized, sigh.
"We mustn't . . ." she murmured.
"He wouldn't come in."
"I hear him."
"No."
"I do," she hissed.
Again, the call from below:
"Jo-Beth! I'd like a word with you. So would your mother."
"I've got to get dressed," she said. She reached down to pick up her clothes. A pleasantly perverse thought passed through Howie's mind as he watched her: that he'd like it if in her haste she put his underwear on instead of her own, and vice versa. To push his cock into a space sanctified by her cunt, perfumed by it, dampened by it, would keep him the way he was—too hard for comfort—until the Crack of Doom.
And wouldn't she look sexy, with her slit just out of sight behind the slit of his briefs? Next time, he promised himself. There'd be no hesitation from now on. She'd allowed the desperado into her bed. Though they'd done no more than put their bodies side by side, that invitation had changed everything between them. Frustrating as it was to see her dress again so soon after their undressing, the fact of their having been naked together would be souvenir enough.
He plucked his jeans and T-shirt up, and began to put them on, watching her watching him as he clothed the machine.
He caught that thought, and modified it. The bone and muscle he occupied was no machine. It was a body, and it was frail. His hand hurt; his hard-on hurt; his heart hurt, or at least some heaviness in his chest gave him the impression of heart-ache. He was too tender to be a machine; and too much loved.
She stopped what she was doing for a moment, and glanced towards the window.
"Did you hear that?" she said.
"No. What?"