Clive Barker - The Great and Secret Show

He wanted so much to kiss her. But instead he let her go about her preparations. With a glance in his direction, she headed through to the lounge. Howie heard an expression of welcome from the visitor, which he took as his cue to slip from the kitchen. There was a moment of danger when—visible at the lounge door—he hesitated before finding the stairs. Then he was away up them, hoping the exchange below would conceal the sound of his footfalls. It seemed they did. There was no change in the rhythm of the dialogue. He reached the pink door and took refuge behind it without incident.

Jo-Beth's bedroom! He'd not dared hope he'd be standing there, among these marshmallow colors, looking at the place where she slept and at the towel she used for showering and at her underwear. When she finally came up the stairs and entered behind him he felt like a thief interrupted in the act of stealing. She caught his embarrassment off him, a flushing sickness that left them avoiding each other's eyes.

"It's a mess," she said softly.

"It's OK," he said. "You weren't expecting me."

"No." She didn't move to hug him. She didn't even smile. "Momma would go mad if she knew you were here. All the time—when she was saying there were terrible things in the Grove—she was right. One of them came here last night, Howie. Came for me and Tommy-Ray."

"The Jaff?"

"You know about him?"

"Something came for me too. Not so much came as called. Fletcher his name is. He says he's my father."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes," Howie said. "I believe him."

Jo-Beth's eyes were filling up. "Don't cry," he said. "Don't you see what all this means? We're not brother and sister. What's between us isn't wrong."

"It's us being together that caused all this," she said. "Don't you understand that? If we hadn't met—"

"But we did."

"If we hadn't met they'd never have come from wherever they came from."

"Isn't it better we know the truth about them—about ourselves? I don't give a fuck for their damn war. And I won't let it pull us apart."

He reached for her, and took hold of her right hand with his unwounded left. She didn't resist, but let his gentle pressure draw her closer. "We have to leave Palomo Grove," he said. "And leave together. Go somewhere they can't find us."

"What about Momma? Tommy-Ray's lost, Howie. She said so herself. That only leaves me to look after her."

"And what use are you if the Jaff gets to you?" Howie argued. "If we leave now, our fathers won't have anything to fight over."

"It's not just about us," Jo-Beth reminded him.

"No, you're right," he conceded, remembering what he'd learned from Fletcher. "It's about this place called Quiddity." His hold on her hand tightened. "We went there, you and me. Or almost went. I want to finish that trip—"

"I don't understand."

"You will. When we go we'll go knowing what kind of journey it is. It'll be like a waking dream." It occurred to him as he spoke that not once had he stumbled or stammered. "We're supposed to hate each other, you know? That was their plan—Fletcher and the Jaff—to have us continue their war. Only we're not going to."

For the first time, she smiled:

"No, we're not," she said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"I love you, Jo-Beth."

"Howie—"

"Too late to stop me. I said it."

She kissed him suddenly, a small sweet stab which he sucked against his mouth before she could deny him, opening the seal of her lips with his tongue, which at that instant would have opened a safe had the taste of her mouth been locked up there. She pressed to him with a force which matched his own, their teeth touching, their tongues playing tag.

Her left hand, which had wrapped around him, now found his tender right and drew it towards her. He could feel the softness of her breast, despite the demure dress and his numbed fingers. He started to fumble with the buttons at her neck, undoing enough to slide his hand inside so that his flesh met hers. She smiled against his lips, and her hand, having guided him to where he'd be most good, went to the front of his jeans. The hard-on he'd begun to sport upon sight of her bed had gone west, bested by nerves. But her touch, and her kisses, which were one indistinguishable blur of mouth on mouth now, raised him again.

"I want to be naked," he said.

She took her lips off his.

"With them downstairs?" she said.

"They're occupied, aren't they?"

"They talk for hours."

"We'll need hours," he whispered.

"Do you have any kind of...protection?"

"We don't have to do everything. I just want that we can at least touch each other properly. Skin to skin."

She looked unpersuaded when she stepped back from him, but her actions belied her expression, as she proceeded to unbutton her dress. He started to strip off his jacket and T-shirt; then began the difficult task of unbuttoning his belt with one hand virtually useless. She came to his aid, doing the job for him.

"It's stifling in here," he said. "Can I open a window?"

"Momma locked them all. In case the Devil got in."

"He did," Howie quipped.

She looked up at him, her dress now open, her breasts bare.

"Don't say that," she said. Instinctively her hands went to cover her nakedness.

"You don't think I'm the Devil," he said. Then: "...do you?"

"I don't know if anything that feels this...this..."

"Say it."

"...this forbidden...can be good for my soul," she replied with perfect seriousness.

"You'll see," he said, moving towards her. "I promise you. You'll see."

"I think I should speak to Jo-Beth," Pastor John said. He'd got past the point of humoring the McGuire woman once she started talking about the beast that had raped her all those years ago, and how it had come back to claim her son. Pontificating on abstractions was one thing (it drew female devotees to him in droves) but when the talk took a turn for the lunatic he beat a diplomatic retreat. Clearly Mrs. McGuire was verging on a mental breakdown. He needed a chaperone, or she might end up inventing all manner of overheated nonsense. It had happened before. He wouldn't be the first man of God to fall victim to a woman of a certain age.

"I don't want Jo-Beth to think about this any more than she has already," came the reply. "The creature that made her in me—"

"Her father was a man, Mrs. McGuire."

"I know that," she said, well aware of the condescension in his voice. "But people are flesh and spirit."

"Of course."

"The man made her flesh. But who made her spirit?"

"God in Heaven," he replied, grateful for this return to safer terrain. "And He made her flesh too, through the man you chose. Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect. "

"It wasn't God," Joyce replied. "I know it wasn't. The Jaff's nothing like God. You should see him. You'd know."

"If he exists then he's human, Mrs. McGuire. And I believe I should talk with Jo-Beth about his visit. If indeed he was here."

"He was here!" she said, her agitation increasing.

He stood up to detach the madwoman's hand from his sleeve.

"I'm sure Jo-Beth will have some valuable insights..." he said, taking a step back. "Why don't I fetch her?"

"You don't believe me," Joyce said. She was close to shouting now; and to tears.

"I do! But really...allow me a moment with Jo-Beth. Is she upstairs? I believe she is. Jo-Beth! Are you there? Jo-Beth?"

"What does he want?" she said, breaking their kiss.

"Ignore him," said Howie.

"Suppose he comes looking for me?"

She sat up, and swung her feet over the edge of th\e bed, listening for the sound of the Pastor's step on the stairs. Howie put his face against her back, reaching beneath her arm—his hand damming a trickle of sweat—and gently touching her breast. She made a small, almost agonized, sigh.