Clive Barker - Weave World

‘I was so happy, Cal,' Brendan was saying. ‘It was all I wanted, knowing that she was happy, and I'd be with her again one day.'

‘There's nothing on the paper. Dad.' Cal said softly. ‘It's blank.'

There was, Cal. I swear it. There was. It was in her handwriting. I'd know it anywhere. Then - God in Heaven - it just faded away.'

Cal turned from the table to see his father practically folded up double in the chair, sobbing as though his grief was beyond bearing. He put his hand on his father's hand, which was gripping the thread-bare arm of the chair.

‘Hold on. Dad,' he murmured.

‘It's a nightmare, son,' Brendan said. ‘It's like I lost her twice.'

‘You haven't lost her. Dad.'

‘Why did her writing disappear like that?'

‘I don't know, Dad.' He glanced back at the letter. The sheet of paper had practically faded altogether.

‘Where did the letter come from?'

The old man frowned.

‘Do you remember?'

‘No ... no, not really. It's hazy. I remember ... somebody came to the door. Yes. That was it. Somebody came to the door. He told me he had something for me ... it was in his coat.'

Tell me what you see and it's yours.

Shadwell's words echoed in Cal's skull.

Have what you like. Free, gratis and without charge.

That was a lie of course. One of many. There was always a charge.

‘What did he want, Dad? In exchange? Can you remember?'

Brendan shook his head, then, frowning as he tried to recollect:

‘Something ... about you. He said ... I think he said ... he knew you.'

He looked up at Cal.

‘Yes he did. I remember now. He said he knew you.'

‘It was a trick. Dad. A disgusting trick.'

Brendan narrowed his eyes, as if trying to comprehend this. And then, suddenly, the solution seemed to come clear.

‘I want to die, Cal.'

‘No, Dad.'

‘Yes I do. Really I do. I don't want to bother any longer.'

‘You're just sad,' Cal said softly. ‘It'll pass.'

‘I don't want it to,' Brendan replied. ‘Not now. I just want to fall asleep and forget I ever lived.'

Cal reached and put his arms around his father's neck. At first Brendan resisted the embrace; he'd never been a demonstrative man. But then the sobs mounted again, and Cal felt his father's thin arms stretch around him, and they hugged each other tight.

‘Forgive me, Cal.' Brendan said through his tears. ‘Can you do that?'

‘Shush, Dad. Don't be daft.'

‘I let you down. I never said the things ... all the things I felt. Not to her either. Never told her .... how much .... never could tell her how much I loved her.'

‘She knew. Dad,' said Cal, his own tears blinding him now. ‘Believe me, she knew.'

They held each other a little while longer. It was small comfort, but there was a heat of anger in Cal that he knew would dry his tears soon enough. Shadwell had been here; Shadwell and his suit of deceptions. In its folds, Brendan had imagined the letter from Heaven, and the illusion had lasted for as long as the Salesman had needed him. Now Brendan was redundant; the carpet had been found. So the magic no longer held. The words had faded, and finally the paper too, returned to that no-man's land between desire and consummation.

‘I'll make some tea, Dad,' Cal said.

It was what his mother would have done in the circumstances. Boiled some fresh water, warmed the pot and counted out the spoonfuls of tea. Setting domestic order against the chaos, in the hope of winning some temporary reprieve from the vale of tears.

VI

EVENTS IN A HIGH WIND

1

As he stepped back into the hall, Cal remembered Nimrod.

The back door was ajar, and the child had tottered out into the wilderness of the garden, dwarfed by the bushes. Cal went to the door and called after him, but Nimrod was busy pissing into a bed of rampant Sweet William. Cal left him to it. In his present condition the most gratification Nimrod could hope for was a good piss.

As he set the kettle on the stove, the Bournemouth train (via Runcorn, Oxford, Reading and Southampton) thundered past. A moment later Nimrod was at the door. ‘Good God,' he said. ‘How did you ever sleep here?' ‘You get used to it,' said Cal. ‘And keep your voice down. My Dad'll hear you.'

‘What happened to my drink?' ‘It'll have to wait.' ‘I'll bawl,' Nimrod warned. ‘So bawl.'

His bluff called, Nimrod shrugged and turned back to survey the garden.

‘I could get to love this world,' he announced, and stepped out again into the sunlight.

Cal picked up a soiled cup from the sink, and rinsed it clean for his father. Then he crossed to the refrigerator in search of milk. As he did so he heard Nimrod make a small sound. He turned, and went to the window. Nimrod was staring up at the sky, his face wide with wonder. He was watching a plane go over, no doubt. Cal retraced his steps. As he took the milk, which was practically the sole occupant of the refrigerator, off the shelf, there was a rapping on the front door. He looked up again, and two or three impressions hit him at the same time.

One, that a breeze had suddenly got up from somewhere. Two, that Nimrod was stepping back into the thicket of raspberry bushes, in search of a hiding place. And three, that it was not wonder on his face, but fear -

Then the rapping became a beating. Fists on the door.

As he made his way through the hall he heard his father say:

‘Cal? There's a child in the garden.'

And from the garden, a shout.

‘Cal? A child -'

From the corner of his eye he saw Brendan walk through the kitchen, heading for the garden.

‘Wait, Dad -' he said, as he opened the front door.

Freddy was on the step. But it was Lilia - standing a little way behind him - who said:

"Where's my brother?

‘Out in the -'

Garden, he was going to say, but the street scene outside left him mute.

The wind had picked up every item not nailed down - litter, dustbin lids, pieces of garden furniture - and flung them into an aerial tarantella. It had uprooted flower beds, and was picking up the soil from the borders, staining the sun with a veil of earth.

A few pedestrians, caught in this hurricane, were clinging to lamp-posts and fences; some were flat on the ground, hands over their heads.

Lilia and Freddy stepped into the house; the wind followed, eager for fresh conquest, roaring through the house and out again into the back garden, its sudden gusts so strong Cal was almost flung off his feet.

‘Shut the door!' Freddy yelled.

Cal pushed the door closed, and bolted it. It rattled as the wind beat on the other side.

‘Jesus.' said Cal. ‘What's happening?'

‘Something's come after us,' said Freddy.

‘What?'

‘I don't know.'

Lilia was already half way to the kitchen. Through the open door at the back it was almost night, the air was so full of dirt, and Cal saw his father stepping over the threshold, shouting something against the banshee howl of the wind. Beyond him, only visible because of his toga, Nimrod was clinging to a bush as the wind tried to pick him up.

Cal followed Lilia at a run and overtook her at the kitchen door. There was a commotion on the roof, as a pack of slates were ripped away.

Brendan was in the garden now, all but eclipsed by the wind.

‘Wait, Dad!' Cal yelled.

As he crossed the kitchen his eyes grazed the tea-pot and the cup beside it, and the utter absurdity of all this hit him like a hammer blow.

I'm dreaming, he thought; I fell from the wall and I've been dreaming ever since. The world isn't like this. The world is the tea-pot and the cup, it isn't raptures and tornadoes.

In that instant of hesitation, the dream became a nightmare. Through the gusting dirt he saw the Rake.