Clive Barker - Weave World

The house he'd commandeered had little to recommend it, beyond its view. A maze of rooms; a collection of faded murals, which he didn't care to study too closely; spare and creaking furniture. The discomfort of the place didn't bother him: he liked spartan living. But the atmosphere did; the sense he had that the ousted tenants were still here, just out of sight. If he'd been a man who believed in ghosts, he'd have said the house was haunted. He wasn't, so he kept his fears to himself, where they multiplied.

Evening had fallen, and the streets below were dark. He could see little from his high window now, but he could hear laughter drifting up from below. He'd given his men the evening to enjoy themselves, warning them never to forget that the township was enemy territory. The laughter grew more riotous, then faded down the street. Let them indulge themselves, he thought. Tomorrow the crusade would take them onto ground the people here thought of as sacred: if they were going to show any resistance, it would be then. He'd seen the same happen in the world outside: a man who wouldn't lift a finger if his house were burned down throwing a fit if someone touched a trinket he called holy. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day, and a bloody one too.

Richardson had declined the opportunity to take the night off, preferring to stay in the house, and make a report of the day's events for his personal records. He kept a ledger of his every move, set down in a tiny, meticulous hand. He worked on it now, as Hobart listened to the laughter disappearing below.

Finally, he put down his pen.

‘Sir?'

‘What is it?'

‘These people, sir. It seems to me-'

Richardson halted, unsure of how best to voice a question that had been vexing him since they'd arrived, ‘- it seems to me they don't look quite human.'

Hobart studied the man. His hair was immaculately cut, his cheeks immaculately shaved, his uniform immaculately pressed.

‘You may be right,' he said.

A flicker of distress crossed Richardson's face.

‘I don't understand ... sir.'

‘While you're here, you should believe nothing you see.'

‘Nothing, sir?'

‘Nothing at all,' Hobart said. He put his fingers to the glass. It was cold; his body heat lent the tips misty haloes. ‘The whole place is a mass of illusions. Tricks and traps. None of it's to be trusted.'

‘It's not real?' Richardson said.

Hobart stared across the roofs of this little nowhere, and turned the question over. Real was a word he'd once had no problem using. Real was what made the world go round, what was solid and true. And its flip side, unreal, that was what some lunatic in a cell shouted at four in the morning; unreal was dreams of power without the flesh to give them weight.

But his view of these matters had subtly changed since his first encounter with Suzanna. He had wanted her capture as he'd wanted no other, and his pursuit of her had led from one strangeness to another, until he was so fatigued he scarcely knew right from left. Real? What was real? Perhaps (this thought would have been unthinkable before Suzanna) real was merely what he said was real. He was the general, and the soldier needed an answer, for his sanity's sake. A plain answer, that would let him sleep soundly.

He gave it:

‘Only the Law's real here,' he said. ‘We have to hang onto that. All of us. Do you understand?'

Richardson nodded. ‘Yes, sir.'

There was a long pause, during which somebody outside began whooping like a drunken Cherokee. Richardson closed his ledger, and went to the second window.

‘I wonder...' he said.

‘Yes?'

‘Perhaps I should go out. Just for a while. To see these illusions face to face.'

‘Maybe.'

‘Now that I know it's all a lie -' he said, ‘- I'm safe, aren't I?'

‘As safe as you're ever going to be,' said Hobart.

‘Then, if you don't mind ...'

‘Go on. See for yourself.'

Richardson was away in seconds, and down the stairs. A few moments later Hobart caught sight of his shadowy form moving away down the street.

The Inspector stretched. He was tired to the marrow. There was a mattress in the next room, but he was determined not to avail himself of it. Laying his head on a pillow would offer the rumours of occupancy here an easy victim.

Instead he sat down in one of the plain chairs and took the book of faery-tales from his pocket. It had not left his presence since its confiscation; he'd lost count of the times he'd scanned its pages. Now he did the same again. But the lines of prose grew steadily hazier in front of him, and though he tried to check himself, his lids became heavier and heavier.

Long before Richardson had found himself an illusion to call his own, the Law that had come to Nonesuch had fallen asleep.

2

Suzanna didn't find it so difficult to avoid Hobart's men when she stepped back into the township. Though they swarmed through the alleyways the shadows had become unnaturally dense there, and she was always able to stay a few steps ahead of the enemy. Getting access to Hobart was another matter, however. Though she wanted to be finished with her work here as quickly as possible there was no use in risking arrest. She'd escaped custody twice; three times might be pressing her luck. Though impatience gnawed at her, she decided to wait until the light faded. The days were still short this early in the year; it would only be a few hours.

She found herself an empty house - availing herself of some plain food that the owners had left there - and wandered around the echoing rooms until the light outside began to dwindle. Her thoughts turned back, and back again, to Jeri-chau, and the circumstances of his death. She tried to remember the way he looked, and had some success with his eyes and hands, but couldn't create anything like a complete portrait. Her failure depressed her. He was so soon gone.

She had just about decided that it was dark enough to risk venturing out when she heard voices. She went to the bottom of the stairs, and peered through to the front of the house. There were two silhouetted figures on the threshold.

‘Not here ...' she heard a girl's voice whisper.

‘Why not?' said her male companion, his words slurred. One of Hobart's company, no doubt. ‘Why not? It's as good as any.'

There's somebody here already,' said the girl, staring into the mystery of the house.

The man laughed. ‘Dirty fuckers!' he called. Then he took the woman roughly by the arm. ‘Let's find somewhere else,' he said. They moved away, into the street.

Suzanna wondered if Hobart had sanctioned such fraternization. She couldn't believe he had.

It was time she put an end to stalking him in her imagination; time to find him and get her business with him done. She slipped through the house, scanned the street, then stepped out into the night.

The air was balmy, and with so few lights burning in the houses, and those that did burn mere candle-flames, the sky was bright above, the stars like dew-drops on velvet. She walked a little way with her face turned skyward, entranced by the sight. But not so entranced she didn't sense Hobart's proximity. He was somewhere near. But where? She could still waste precious hours going from house to house, trying to find him.

When in doubt, ask a policeman. It had been one of her mother's favourite saws, and never more apt. A few yards from where she stood one of Hobart's horde was pissing against a wall, singing a ragged rendition of Land of Hope and Glory to accompany the flood.

Trusting that his inebriation would keep him from recognizing her, she asked Hobart's whereabouts.

‘You don't need him,' the man said. ‘Come on in. We've got a party going.'

‘Maybe later. I've got to see the Inspector.'

‘If you must,' the man said. ‘He's in the big house with the white walls.' He pointed back the way she'd come, splashing his feet as he did so. ‘Somewhere off to the right,' he said.