The Great and Secret Show

by Clive Barker

  Never a truer word said or thought.

  Anything was possible.

  They weren't alone here, Jo-Beth knew. It was not much comfort, but it was some. Every now and then she'd hear somebody calling out, their voices distressed on occasion, but just as often ecstatic, like a congregation half in terror, half in awe, spread across the surface of Quiddity. She didn't answer any of the calls. For one thing, she'd seen forms floating past, always at some distance, that suggested people didn't stay human here. They grew freakish. She had enough problems dealing with Tommy-Ray (who was the second reason she didn't reply to the calls) without inviting more bad news. He demanded her constant attention; speaking to her as they floated, his voice drained of all emotion. He had a good deal to say, between the apologies and the sobs. Some of it she already knew. About how good he'd felt when their father had returned, and how betrayed when she'd rejected them both. But there was a lot more, and some of it broke her heart. He told her first about the trip to the Mission, his story mostly fragments but suddenly becoming stream-of-consciousness descriptions of the horrors he'd witnessed and performed. She might have been tempted to disbelieve the worst of it—the murders, the visions of his own decay—but for his lucidity. She'd never in her life heard him so articulate as when he told her how it felt to be the Death-Boy.

  "Remember Andy?" he said at one point. "He had a tattoo . . . it was a skull . . . on his chest, above his heart?"

  "I remember," she said.

  "He used to say one day he'd go out on the crests at Topanga—one last ride—and never come back. Used to say he loved Death. But he didn't Jo-Beth . . ."

  "No."

  "He was a coward. He made a lot of noise but he was a coward. I'm not, am I? I'm no momma's boy . . ."

  He started to sob again, more violently than ever. She tried to hush him but this time none of her soothing worked.

  "Momma . . ." she heard him saying, "Momma . . ."

  "What about Momma?" she said.

  "It wasn't my fault."

  "What wasn't?"

  "I only went looking for you. It wasn't my fault."

  "I said what wasn't?" Jo-Beth demanded, pushing him off her a little way. "Tommy-Ray, answer me. Did you hurt her?"

  He looked like a chided child, she thought. Any pretense to machismo had been stripped from him. He was a raw, snotty child. Pathetic and dangerous: the inevitable combination.

  "You hurt her," she said.

  "I don't want to be the Death-Boy," he protested. "I don't want to kill anybody—"

  "Kill?" she said.

  He looked straight at her, as though his direct look might convince her of his innocence. "It wasn't me. It was the dead people. I went looking for you, and they followed me. I couldn't shake them off. I tried, Jo-Beth, I really tried."

  "My God!" she said, thrusting him out of her arms.

  Her action wasn't that violent, but it churned Quiddity's element out of all proportion to the size of her motion. She was vaguely aware that her repugnance was the cause of this; that Quiddity was matching her mental agitation with its own.

  "It wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed with me," he protested. "You should have stayed, Jo-Beth."

  She kicked away from him, her feelings making Quiddity boil.

  "Bastard!" she yelled at him. "You killed her! You killed her!"

  "You're my sister," he said. "You're the only one who can save me!"

  He reached for her, his face a mess of sorrow, but all she could see in his features was Momma's murderer. He could protest his innocence to the end of the world (if they weren't beyond that already), she'd never forgive him. If he saw her revulsion he chose to ignore it. He began grappling with her, his hands clutching her face, then her breasts.

  "Don't leave me!" he started to shout. "I won't let you leave me!"

  How many times had she made excuses for him, because they'd been twin eggs in the same tube? Seen his corruption, and still extended a forgiving hand? She'd even coaxed Howie into putting his disgust at Tommy-Ray aside, for her sake. Enough was enough. This man might be her brother, her twin, but he was guilty of matricide. Momma had survived the Jaff, Pastor John and Palomo Grove, only to be killed in her own house, by her own son. His crime was beyond forgiveness.

  He reached for her again, but this time she was ready. She hit him across the face, once, then once again, as hard as she could muster. Shock at the blows made him give up his hold on her for a moment and she started away from him, kicking the churning sea up in his face. He threw his arms in front of him to shield himself and she was gone out of his reach, vaguely aware that her body was not so sleek as it had been, but not taking time to discover why. All that was important now was to be as far from him as she could be; to keep him from touching her ever again; ever. She struck out strongly, ignoring his sobs. This time she didn't look behind her, at least until his din had faded. Then she slowed her pace, and glanced back. He wasn't in sight. Grief filled her up—agonized her—but a more immediate horror was upon her before the full consequences of Momma's death could touch her. Her limbs felt heavy as she pulled them from the ether. Tears half blinding her she raised her hands in front of her face. Through the blur she saw that her fingers were encrusted, as though she'd dipped her hands in oil and oatmeal; her arms were misshapen with some similar filth.

  She started to sob, knowing all too clearly what this horror signified. Quiddity was at work on her. Somehow it was making her fury solid. The sea had made her flesh a fertile mud. Forms were springing from it as ugly as the rage which inspired them.

  Her sobs became a yell. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to unleash a shout like this, tamed as she'd been by so many years being Momma's domesticated daughter, smiling for the Grove on Monday mornings. Now Momma was dead, and the Grove was probably in ruins. And Monday? What was Monday? Just a name arbitrarily attached to a day and a night in the long history of days and nights which were the life of the world. They meant nothing now: days, nights, names, towns or dead mothers. All that made sense to her was Howie. He was all she had left.

  She tried to picture him, desperate to hold on to something in this insanity. His image slipped from her at first— all she could see was Tommy-Ray's wretched face—but she persevered, conjuring him by particulars. His spectacles, his pale skin, his odd gait. His eyes, full of love. His face, flushed with blood the way it was when he spoke with passion, which was often. His blood and love, in one hot thought.

  "Save me," she sobbed, hoping against hope that Quiddity's strange waters carried her despair to him. "Save me, or it's over."

  II

  "ABERNETHY?"

  It was an hour before dawn in Palomo Grove, and Grillo had quite a report to file.

  "I'm surprised you're still in the land of the living," Abernethy growled.

  "Disappointed?"

  "You're an asshole, Grillo. I don't hear from you for days then you call up at six o'clock in the fucking morning."

  "I've got a story, Abernethy."

  "I'm listening."

  "I'm going to tell it the way it happened. But I don't think you're going to print it."

  "Let me be the judge of that. Spit it out."

  "Piece begins. Last night in the quiet residential town of Palomo Grove, Ventura County, a community set in the secure hills of the Simi Valley, our reality, known to those who juggle such concepts as the Cosm, was torn open by a power that proved to this reporter that all life is a movie—"

  "What the fuck?"

  "Shut up, Abernethy. I'm only going to tell you this once. Where was I? Oh yeah . . . a movie. This force, wielded by one Randolph Jaffe, broke the confines of what most of our species believed to be the only and absolute reality, and opened a door to another state of being: a sea called Quiddity—"

  "Is this a resignation letter, Grillo?"

  "You wanted the story nobody else would dare print, right?" Grillo said. "The real dirt. This is it. This is the great revelation."

  "It's r
idiculous."

  "Maybe that's the way all earth-shattering news sounds. Have you thought of that? What would you have done if I'd tried to file a report on the Resurrection? Crucified man rolls away the stone. Would you have printed that?"

  "That's different," Abernethy said. "That happened."

  "So did this. I swear to God. And if you want proof, you're going to get it real soon."

  "Proof? From where?"

  "Just listen," Grillo said, and picked up his report again. "This revelation about the fragile state of our being took place in the midst of one of the most glamorous gatherings in recent movie and TV history, when about two hundred guests—Hollywood's movers and shakers—assembled at the hill-top house of Buddy Vance, who died here in Palomo Grove earlier in the week. His death, under circumstances both tragic and mysterious, began a series of events which climaxed last night with a number of the guests at his memorial party being snatched out of the world as we know it. There are no details yet as to the complete list of victims; though Vance's widow Rochelle was certainly among them. Nor is there any way of knowing their fate. They may be dead. They may simply exist in another state of being which only the most foolhardy of adventurers would dare enter. To all intents and purposes they have simply vanished off the face of the earth."

  He expected Abernethy to interrupt at this juncture, but there was silence from the other end of the line. So profound a silence, indeed, that Grillo said:

  "Are you still there, Abernethy?"

  "You're nuts, Grillo."

  "So put the phone down on me. Can't do it, can you? See, there's a real paradox here. I hate your fucking guts but I think you're just about the only man with the balls to print this. And the world's got to know."

  "You are nuts."

  "You watch the news through the day. You'll see . . . there's a lot of famous people missing this morning. Studio executives, movie stars, agents—"

  "Where are you?"

  "Why?"

  "Let me make some calls, then get back to you."

  "What for?"

  "See if there's any rumors flying. Just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking. I'm not saying I believe you. I don't. But it's one fuck of a story."

  "It's the truth, Abernethy. And I want to warn people. They have to know."

  "Like I said, give me five minutes. Are you at the same number?"

  "Yeah. But you may not get through. The place is practically deserted."

  "I'll get through," Abernethy said, and put down the phone.

  Grillo looked across at Tesla.

  "I did it," he said.

  "I still don't think it's wise, telling people."

  "Don't start again," Grillo said. "This is the story I was born to tell, Tesla."

  "It's been a secret for so long."

  "Yeah, for people like your friend Kissoon."

  "He's not my friend."

  "Isn't he?"

  "For Christ's sake, Grillo, you heard what he did—"

  "So why do you talk about him with this sneaking envy in your voice, huh?"

  She looked at him like he'd just slapped her.

  "Call me a liar?" he said.

  She shook her head.

  "What's the appeal?"

  "I don't know. You're the one who just kept watching the Jaff do his stuff. No attempt to stop him. What was the appeal of that?"

  "I wouldn't have had a chance against him, you know that."

  "You didn't try."

  "Don't change the subject. I'm right, aren't I?"

  Tesla had crossed to the window. Coney Eye was screened by trees. There was no telling from here whether the damage was spreading.

  "Do you think they're alive?" she said. "Howie, and the others?"

  "I don't know."

  "You got to look into Quiddity, right?"

  "I got a glimpse," Grillo said.

  "And?"

  "It was like one of our telephone calls. Cut off short. All I got to see was a cloud. There was no sign of Quiddity itself."

  "And no Iad ."

  "No Iad . Maybe they don't exist."

  "You wish."

  "You're sure of your sources?"

  "Couldn't be more sure."

  "I love it," Grillo remarked somewhat bitterly. "I dig around for days and all I get is a fucking peek. But you—you plug straight in."

  "Is this what this is about?" Tesla said. "You getting a story?"

  "Yeah. Maybe it is. And telling it. Making people understand what's going on in Happy Valley. But seems to me you don't really want that. You'd be happier if we kept this among the chosen few. You, Kissoon, the fucking Jaff—"

  "OK, you want to report the end of the world? You do it, Orson. Listeners across America are just waiting to panic. Meanwhile, I've got problems—"

  "You smug bitch."

  "I'm smug! I'm smug! Listen to Mister Hotshot Tell Them The Truth Or Die Trying Grillo! Has it occurred to you that if Abernethy publishes what's going on up here we're j going to have a major tourist industry in twelve hours? Freeways blocked in both directions? And won't that be nice for whatever's coming out of the throat, huh? Feeding time!"

  "Shit."

  "Didn't think of that, did you? And while we're talking turkey, you—"

  The telephone silenced her in mid-accusation. Grillo picked it up.

  "Nathan?"

  "Abernethy."

  Grillo looked across at Tesla, who was standing with her back to the window glaring at him.

  "I'm going to need a lot more than two paragraphs."

  "What convinced you?"

  "You were right. A lot of people didn't come home from the party."

  "Has it made the news this morning?"

  "Nope. So you've got an edge. Of course your explanation about where they've gone's crap. Biggest fiction I ever heard. But it's a great front page."

  "I'll get back to you with the rest."

  "An hour."

  "An hour."

  He put the phone down.

  "All right," he said, looking at Tesla. "So suppose I hold off giving him the full story till noon? What can we do in that time?"

  "I don't know," Tesla admitted. "Maybe find the Jaff."

  "And what the hell can he do?"

  "Not do much. But undo plenty."

  Grillo stood up and went through to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water on his face.

  "You think the hole can be closed?" he said, wandering back in, water dripping from his face.

  "I told you, I don't know. Maybe. I don't have any other answers, Grillo."

  "And what happens to the people inside? The McGuire twins. Katz. The rest."

  "They're probably dead already," she sighed. "We can't help them."

  "Easily said."

  "Well you seemed ready enough to fling yourself in a few hours ago, so maybe you should go in after them. I'll get you a piece of string, to hold on to."

  "All right," Grillo said, "I haven't forgotten you saved my life, and I'm grateful."

  "Jeez, I've made some errors in my time . . ."

  "Look, I'm sorry. I'm coming at this all wrong. I know I am. I should be planning some plan. Being a hero. But see . . . I'm not. The only response I've got to all this is the same old Grillo. I can't change. I see something, I want the world to know."

  "It will," Tesla said quickly. "It will."

  "But you . . . you've changed."

  She nodded. "You got that right," she said. "I was thinking, when you were telling Abernethy he wouldn't have printed the Resurrection story: that's me. I'm resurrected. And you know what freaks me? I'm not freaked. I'm cool. I'm fine. I go walking around in a fucking time loop, and it's like . . "

  "What?"

  " . . . it's like I was born for this, Grillo. Like I could be . . . oh shit, I don't know."

  "Say it. Whatever's on your mind, say it."

  "You know what a shaman is?"

  "Sure," said Grillo. "Medicine-man. Witch-doctor."

>   "More than that," she said. "He's a mind-healer. Gets inside the collective psyche and explains it. Stirs it around. I think all the major performers in this—Kissoon, the Jaff, Fletcher—they're shamans. And Quiddity . . . is America's dream-space. The world's maybe. I've seen these men fucking it up, Grillo. All on their own trips. Even Fletcher couldn't get his shit together."

  "So maybe what's needed is a change of shaman," Grillo said.

  "Yeah. Why not?" Tesla replied. "I can't do any worse than they have."

  "That's why you want to keep it to yourself."

  "That's one of the reasons, sure. I can do this, Grillo. I'm weird enough, and most of these shamans, you know, were a little off in some way. Cross-dressers; gender-fuckers. All things to all men. Animal, vegetable and mineral. I want to be that. I've always wanted . . . ," she trailed off. ". . . you know what I've always wanted."

  "Not till now."

  "Well now you do."

  "You don't look very happy about it."

  "I've done the resurrection scene. That's one of those scenes shamans have to do. Die and rise again. But I keep thinking . . . it's not finished. I've got more to prove."

  "You think you have to die again?"

  "I hope not. Once was enough."

  "It usually is," Grillo said.

  His remark brought a smile to her lips, unbidden.

  "What's funny?" he said.

  "That. You. Me. Things don't get any weirder than this, do they?"

  "That's a fair bet."

  "What time is it?"

  "About six."

  "The sun'll be up soon. I'm thinking I should go out to look for the Jaff, before the light drives him into hiding."

  "That's if he's not left the Grove."

  "I don't think he's capable," she said. "The circle's closing. Getting tighter and tighter. Coney Eye's suddenly the center of the known universe."