Clive Barker - Weave World

Not for him the niceties of the sociologist or the civic planner. His sacred task was to preserve the peace, and his methods -which his apologists described as uncompromising — found sympathy with his civic masters. He rose in the ranks within weeks, and behind closed doors he was offered carte blanche to deal with the anarchy that had already cost the city millions. He was not blind to the politics of this manoeuvre. No doubt the higher echelons, for whom he had utter but unspoken contempt, were fearful of the backlash should they wield too strong a whip themselves. No doubt too he would be the first to be sacrificed to the ferocity of public indignation should the techniques he brought to bear fail.

But they did not fail. The elite he formed - men chosen from the Divisions for their sympathy with Hobart's methods – was quickly successful. While the conventional forces kept the blue line unbroken on the streets, Hobart's Special Force, known - to those who knew of it at all - as the Fire Brigade, was acting behind the scenes to terrorize any suspected of fuelling the agitation, either by word or deed. Within weeks the riots died down, and James Hobart was suddenly a force to be reckoned with.

There had followed several months of inactivity, and the Brigade languished. It had not escaped Hobart that being the man of the hour was of little consequence once that hour had passed; and through the spring and early summer of this, the following year, that seemed to be the case.

Until now. Today he dared hope he still had a fight on his hands. There'd been chaos, and here, in front of him, the gratifying evidence.

‘What's the situation?'

His right-hand man, Richardson, shook his head.

There's talk of some kind of whirlwind.' he said.

‘Whirlwind?' Hobart indulged a smile at the absurdity of this. When he smiled his lips disappeared, and his eyes became slits. ‘No felons?'

‘Not that we've had reported. Apparently it was just this wind —'

Hobart stared at the spectacle of destruction in front of him.

This is England,' he said. ‘We don't have whirlwinds.'

‘Well something did this.'

‘Somebody, Bryn. Anarchists. They're like rats, these people. You find a poison that does the job, and they learn how to get fat on it.' He paused. ‘You know, I think it's going to begin again.'

As he spoke, another of his officers - one of the blood-spattered heroes of the previous year's confrontations, a man called Fryer - approached.

‘Sir. We've got reports of suspects seen crossing the bridge.'

‘Get after them' said Hobart. ‘Let's have some arrests. And Bryn, you talk to these people. I want testimonies from everyone in the street.'

The two officers went about their business, leaving Hobart to ponder the problem. There was no doubt in his mind that events here were of human making. It might not be the same individuals whose heads he'd broken last year, but it was essentially the same animal. In his years of service he'd confronted that beast in its many guises, and it seemed to him that it grew more devious and damnable every time he stared into its maw.

But the enemy was a constant, whether it concealed itself behind fire, flood or whirlwind. He took strength from that fact. The battlefield might be new, but the war was old. It was the struggle between the Law, of which he was the representative, and the rot of disorder in the human heart. He would let no whirlwind blind him to that fact.

Sometimes, of course, the war required that he be cruel, but what cause worth fighting for did not require cruelty of its champions once in a while? He had never shirked that responsibility and he would not shirk now.

Let the beast come again, in whatever fancy dress it chose. He would be ready.

IX

ON THE MIGHT OF PRINCES

The Incantatrix did not look towards Shadwell when he entered; indeed it seemed she'd not moved a muscle since the night before. The hotel room was stale with her breath and sweat. Shadwell inhaled deeply.

‘My poor libertine.' she murmured. ‘He's destroyed.'

‘How's that possible?' Shadwell replied. The image of the creature was still lodged in his head, in all its appalling magnificence. How could a thing so powerful be killed, especially as it had already been dead? ‘It was the Cuckoos,' she said. ‘Mooney, or the girl?' ‘Mooney.'

‘And the carpet crawlers?'

‘All survived but one.' said Immacolata. ‘Am I right, sister?' The Hag was squatting in the corner, her body like phlegm on a wall. Her reply to Immacolata was so soft Shadwell missed it.

‘Yes.' the Incantatrix said. ‘My sister saw one of them dispatched. The rest escaped.' ‘And the Scourge?' ‘I hear only silence.'

‘Good.' said Shadwell. Til have the carpet moved this evening.' ‘Where to?' ‘A house across the river, that belongs to a man I once did business with: Shearman. We'll hold the Auction there. This place is too public for our clients.'

‘Are they coming then?'

Shadwell grinned. ‘Of course they're coming. They've waited years, these people. Just for a chance to bid. And I'm going to give it to them.'

It pleased him, to think of how readily they sprang to his command, the seven mighty bidders whom he'd invited to this Sale of Sales.

Among their members were some of the wealthiest individuals in the world; between them, fortunes sufficient to trade in nations. None of the seven had a name that would have meant anything to the hoi-polloi - they were, like the truly mighty, anonymously great. But Shadwell had done his researches well. He knew that these seven had something else in common besides wealth beyond calculation. All, he knew, hungered for the miraculous. That was why they were even now leaving their chateaux and penthouses and hurrying to this grimy city, their palates dry, their palms sweaty.

He had something each of them wanted almost as much as life itself: and perhaps more than wealth. Mighty they were. But today, was he not mightier?

X

HUMANKINDNESS

‘So much desire,' Apolline commented to Su-zanna, as they walked the streets of Liverpool. They'd found nothing at Gilchrist's Warehouse but suspicious stares, and had made a quick exit before enquiries were made. Once out, Apolline had demanded to take a tour of the city, and had followed her nose to the busiest thoroughfare she could find, its pavements crammed with shoppers, children and dead-beats.

‘Desire?' said Suzanna. It wasn't a motive that sprang instantly to mind on this dirty street.

‘Everywhere,' said Apolline. ‘Don't you see?'

She pointed across at a billboard advertising bed-linen, which depicted two lovers languishing in a post-coital fatigue; beside it a car advertisement boasted The Perfect Body, and made its point as much in flesh as steel. ‘And there,' said Apolline, directing Suzanna to a window display of deodorants, in which the serpent tempted a fetchingly naked Adam and Eve with the promise of confidence in crowds.

The place is a whorehouse,' said Apolline, clearly approving.

Only now did Suzanna realize that they'd lost Jerichau. He'd been loitering a few paces behind the woman, his anxious eyes surveying the parade of human beings. Now he'd gone.

They retraced their steps through the throng of pedestrians and found him standing in front of a video rental shop, entranced by bank upon bank of monitors.

‘Are they prisoners?' he said, as he stared at the talking heads.

‘No,' said Suzanna. ‘It's a show. Like a theatre.' She plucked at his oversized jacket. ‘Come on,' she said.

He looked around at her. His eyes were brimming. The thought that he had been moved to tears by the sight of a dozen television screens made her fear for his tender heart.

‘It's all right,' she said, coaxing him away from the window. They're quite happy.'