Clive Barker - Weave World

‘Leave him be!' she yelled. Nobody paid the least attention. There was something almost ritualistic about the way victim and executioners were playing this out, as though their cells knew it of old, and had no power to re-write the story.

It was the police sirens that broke the spell. The first time Suzanna had heard that gut-churning wail and been thankful for it.

The effect was both immediate and comprehensive. Members of the crowd began to moan as though in sympathy with the sirens, those still in combat forsaking their enemies' throats, the rest staring down at their trampled belongings and bloodied fists in disbelief. One or two fainted on the spot. Several others began weeping again, this time more in confusion than fear. Many, deciding discretion bettered arrest, took to their heels. Shocked back into their Cuckoo blindness they fled in all directions, shaking their heads to dislodge the last vestiges of their vision.

Apolline had appeared at Jerichau's side, having manoeuvred her way round the back of the mob during the previous few minutes.

She bullied him from his trance of sacrifice, shaking him and shouting. Then she hauled him away. Her rescue attempt came not a moment too soon, for though most of the lynch-party had dispersed a dozen or so weren't ready to give up their sport. They wanted blood, and would have it before the

law arrived.

Suzanna looked around for some escape route. A small street off the main road offered some hope. She summoned Apolline with a shout. The arrival of the patrol cars proved a useful distraction: there was a further scattering of the mob.

But the hard core of dedicated lynchers came in pursuit. As Apolline and Jerichau reached the street corner the first of the mob, the woman with the smeared face, snatched at Apolline's dress. Apolline let go of Jerichau and turned on her attacker, delivering a punch to the woman's jaw that threw her to the

ground.

A couple of the officers had caught sight of the chase and were now chasing in their turn, but before they could step in to prevent violence, Jerichau stumbled. In that second the mob was on him.

Suzanna turned back to lend him a hand. As she did so a car raced towards her, skirting the kerb. The next second it was at her side, the door flung open, and Cal was yelling:

‘Get in! Get in!'

‘Wait!' she called to him, and looked back to see Jerichau being flung against a brick wall, cornered by the hounds. Apolline, who'd laid another of the mob out for good measure, was now making for the open car door. But Suzanna couldn't leave Jerichau.

She ran back towards the knot of bodies that now eclipsed him, blotting out the sound of Cal's voice calling her to get away while she could. By the time she reached Jerichau he'd given up all hope of resistance. He was just sliding down the wall, sheltering his bloodied head from a hail of spittle and blows. She shouted for the assault to stop but anonymous hands dragged her from his side.

Again she heard Cal shout, but she couldn't have gone to him now if she'd wanted to.

‘Drive!' she yelled, praying to God he heard her and got going. Then she flung herself at the most vicious of Jerichau's tormentors. But there were simply too many hands holding her back, some covertly molesting her in the confusion of the moment. She struggled and shouted, but it was hopeless. In desperation she reached for Jerichau, and hung onto him for dear life, covering her head with her other arm as the bruising hail intensified.

Quite suddenly, the beating and the cursing and the kicks all ceased, as two officers broke into the ring of lynchers. Two or three of the mob had already taken the opportunity to slope away before they were detained, but most of them showed not the least sign of guilt. Quite the reverse; they wiped the spit from their lips and began to justify their brutality in shrill voices.

They started it, officer,' said one of the number, a balding individual who, before the blood had stained his knuckles and shirt, might have been a bank cashier.

‘Is that right?' said the officer, taking a look at the black derelict and his sullen mistress. ‘Get the fuck up, you two.' he said. ‘You've got some questions to answer.'

XI

THREE VIGNETTES

1

‘We should never have left them.' Cal said, when they'd made a circuit of the block and come back up Lord Street again to find the street crawling with officers, and no sign of Jerichau or Suzanna. ‘They've been arrested.' he said. ‘Damn it, we shouldn't have -'

‘Be practical.' said Nimrod. ‘We had no choice.'

‘They almost murdered us.' said Apolline. She was still panting like a horse.

‘At this point, our priority has to be the Weave.' Nimrod said. ‘I think we're agreed on that.'

‘Lilia saw the carpet.' Freddy explained to Apolline. ‘From the Laschenski house.'

‘Is that where she is now?' Apolline enquired. Nobody replied to the question for several seconds. Then Nimrod spoke. ‘She's dead.' he said flatly.

‘Dead?' Apolline replied. ‘How? Not one of the Cuckoos?' ‘No.' said Freddy. ‘It was something Immacolata raised. Our man Mooney here destroyed it, before it killed us

all.'

‘She knows we're awake then.' said Apolline.

Cal caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes had become like black pebbles in the puffed dough of her face.

‘Nothing's changed, has it?' she said. ‘Humankind on one side, and bad raptures on the other.'

‘The Scourge was worse than any rapture.' said Freddy.

‘It's still not safe to wake the rest of them.' Apolline insisted. ‘The Cuckoos are more dangerous than ever.'

‘If we don't wake them, what happens to us?' said Nimrod.

‘We become Custodians.' said Apolline. ‘We watch over the carpet until times get better.'

‘If they ever do.' said Freddy.

That remark put an end to the conversation for a good long while.

2

Hobart looked at the blood that was still bright on the paving stones of Lord Street, and knew for certain that the debris the anarchists had left on Chariot Street had been only a curtain-raiser. Here was something more graspable: a spontaneous eruption of lunacy amongst an ordinary cross-section of people, their violence whipped up by the two rebels who were now in custody awaiting his interrogation.

Last year's weapons had been bricks and home-made bombs. This year's terrorists had more access to more sophisticated equipment, it seemed. There'd been talk of a mass hallucination here, on this unremarkable street. The testimonies of perfectly sane citizens spoke of the sky changing colour. If the forces of subversion had indeed brought new weapons into the field - mind-altering gases, perhaps - then he'd be well placed to press for more aggressive tactics: heavier armaments, and a freer hand to use them. There would be resistance from the higher ranks, he knew from experience; but the more blood that was seen to be spilled the more persuasive his case became.

‘You,' he said, calling one of the press photographers over. He directed the man's attention to the splashes on the paving underfoot. ‘Show that to your readers.' he said.

The man duly photographed the splashes, then turned his lens towards Hobart. He had no opportunity to snatch a portrait before Fryer stepped in and wrenched the camera from his grip.

‘No pictures.' he said.

‘Got something to hide?' the photographer retorted.

‘Give him his property back.' said Hobart. ‘He's got a job to do, like all of us.'

The journalist took his camera and withdrew.

‘Scum.' Hobart muttered as the man turned his back. Then: ‘Anything from Chariot Street?'

‘We've got some damn peculiar testimonies.'

‘Oh?'

‘Nobody's actually confessed to seeing anything, but apparently around the time of this whirlwind things got crazy. The dogs went wild; all the radios cut off. Something strange went on there, no doubt of that.'