Clive Barker - Sacrament

He would not visit these places again; not this autumn, nor ever. His life, which had been in its curious way a model of stability, was changing: by the day, by the hour. Though he would certainly silence Rabjohns, the deed would not repair the damage that had been done. Rosa would still die; and he would be left alone in his despair, spiralling down and down. Given that there would be nobody to check his descent, he would keep going until he could fall no further. Then he would perish, most likely by his own hand, and his vision of a naked earth would be left in other, less honourable, hands.

No matter, he thought, as he resumed his trek towards the wood. There were plenty of men who were in unwitting service of the same ideal. He'd had the questionable pleasure of meeting a host of them in his time: crazed military men, in a few cases; many of these psychotics; a few who knew precisely the name of their evil, and simply pleasured in it; but most - these the most interesting to speak with - men who were not personally inhumane, but who sat in their offices like bland accountants, orchestrating pogroms and ethnic cleansing for fiscal and political reasons. Whatever their natures, they were his allies to a man, as likely to wipe out a species as he, in their pursuit of ambition. Some did so in the name of profit; some in the name of freedom; some simply because they could. The reasons didn't really matter to him. What mattered was the consequences. He wanted to see Creation dwindle, family by family, tribe by tribe, from the vast to the infinitesimal, and he'd always needed the autocrats and the technocrats to help him achieve his goal. But whereas they were indiscriminate and crude, often unaware of the damage they'd done, he had always plotted against life with the greatest precision; researching his victims like an assassin, so as to be familiar with their habits and their hideaways. Once marked for death, few had escaped him. He knew of no finer feeling than to sit with one of the dead and record its details in his journal, knowing that when corruption had claimed the corpse he and only he possessed a record of how and when this line had passed into history.

This will not come again. Nor this. Nor this ...

He had reached the borders of the wood now. A gust of wind moved through the trees, overturning the coins of sun on the ground. He stepped amongst them, gingerly, while the wind came again, shaking down a few early leaves. He went directly to the place where the birds had sat that distant winter. A spring nest sat in the fork of the branches, forsaken now that it had served its function as a nursery, but still intact. Standing at the spot where the birds had fallen, he remembered with vile ease the vision Rabjohns had made him endure- Simeon in the sunlight, a day from death, refusing the call of his patron, eloquent, even in his despair. And then the same scene, a day and a moment later. Simeon dead, under the trees, his body already carrion- Steep let out a little moan, working the heels of his hands against his eyes to press the sight from his head. But it wouldn't go: it pulsed behind his lids, as though he were seeing it now for the first time in all its cruel particulars: the claw marks upon Thomas's cheek and brow, where the birds had skipped as they pecked out his eyes; the dung spattered on his thigh, where some animal had voided itself while sniffing around; the curl of golden hair at his groin, miraculously untouched though the manhood it had nestled had been ripped away, and left the place all blood, but for this tuft.

He did not imagine that killing the conduit would heal his deepening anguish. He was in its thrall now, and would be swallowed utterly. But when he finally succumbed to it, he would do so with his wits his own. There would be no trespasser amongst his thoughts, treading where his griefs lay tenderest. He would die alone, in the belly of his despair, and nobody would know what last thoughts visited him there.

It was time to go. He had put off the moment long enough, fearful of his own weakness. He would have liked to have his knife in his hands as he strode down the hill - it knew the business of slaughter more intimately than even he. But no matter. Murder was an old art; older than the beating of blades. He would find some means by which to do the deed before the moment was upon him. A rope; a hammer; a pillow. And if all else failed, he had his hands. Yes, perhaps that was best, to do it with his hands. It was honest, and simple, and like the error that would be connected with the deed, the work of flesh and flesh. The neatness of this pleased him, and in his present state a little pleasure, however it was won, was not to be despised.

There had been no butcher's shop in Burnt Yarley since the passing of Delbert Donnelly, and since the demolition of the Courthouse, no Donnellys either. His daughter Marjorie and her family had gone to live in Easdale, and his widow had departed for the high life in Lytham St Armes. The shop had passed through several hands - it had been a hairdresser's, a thrift shop, a greengrocer's and was now once again a hairdresser's. The Donnellys' residence, however, had never been sold. There was no suspicious reason for this - Delbert was not reported to walk its bare boards, chomping on pork pies - it was simply an ugly, charmless house that had been overpriced for the market. For a buyer interested in privacy it was an ideal purchase, however, surrounded as it was by a seven-foot privet hedge which had once been Delbert's pride and joy. Had he paid as much attention to his personal appearance as he had to his hedge, some had observed, he would have been the smartest man in Yorkshire. Well, Delbert was probably more unkempt than ever, under St Luke's sod, and his hedge had run riot. These days the Donnelly house could barely be seen from the road.

'Whatever made you think of bringing Rosa here?' Frannie asked Sherwood as he pushed open the gate.

He gave her a guilty look. 'I've been coming here on and off as long as it's been empty,' he said.

'Why?'

'Dunno,' he said. 'So I could be on my own.'

'So all those times I thought you were out walking the hills you were here?'

'Not always. But a lot of the time.' He picked up his pace to get a little ahead of Frannie and Will, then turning said: 'I have to go in without you. I don't want you frightening her.'

'Frannie should stay out here by all means,' Will said. 'But you're not going in alone. Steep may be in there.'

'Then the three of us go in,' Frannie said. 'No ifs, ands or buts.' And so saying she strode up the gravel path to the front door, leaving the men to catch up. The front door was open, the interior relatively bright. The source of illumination was not electric light but two gaping holes, the larger six foot wide, in the roof, courtesy of the storms that had raged the previous February. Ninety-mile gusts had stripped off the slates and icy rains had pummelled the boards to tinder. Now the day shone in.

'Where is she?' Will whispered to Sherwood.

'In the dining-room,' he replied, nodding down the hall. There were three doors to choose from, but Will didn't have to guess. From the furthest of them came Rosa's voice. It was weak, but there was no doubting its sentiments.

'Don't come near me. I don't want anyone near me.'

'It's not Jacob,' Will said, going to the door and pushing it open. There were shutters at the window, and they were almost closed, leaving the room murky. But he found her readily enough, lying against the wall to the right of the chimney breast, her bags around her. She sat up when he entered, though with much effort. 'Sherwood?' she said.

'No. It's Will.'

'I used to be able to hear so clearly,' Rosa said. 'So he hasn't found you yet?'

'Not yet. But I'm ready when he does.'