Clive Barker - The Great and Secret Show

"I just want to be certain Rochelle can be kept out of it."

"I won't lay a finger on her," the Jaff replied. "There? Does that satisfy you?"

"It does, yes. Thanks."

"So. Shall we begin?"

"What are you planning?"

"I just want you to bring the guests up to see me, one by one. Let them get a little liquor in their systems first, then...show them the house."

"Men or women?"

"Bring the men first," the Jaff said, wandering back over to the window. "They're more pliable. Is it my imagination or is it getting dark?"

"Just clouding over."

"Rain?"

"I doubt it."

"Pity. Ah, more guests at the gate. You'd better go down and welcome them in."

It was an empty gesture, Howie knew, to go back to the woods on the edge of Deerdell. There could be no repetition of the meeting he'd had there. Fletcher had gone, and with him, so much clarification. But he went back anyway, vaguely hoping that returning to the place he'd met his father would spark some memory, however vestigial, which would help him dig through to the truth.

The sun was veiled with a hazy layer of cloud, but it was as hot beneath the trees as it had been on the other two occasions he'd come here. Hotter perhaps; certainly clammier. Though he'd intended to make directly for the place where he'd met Fletcher his route became as wandering as his thoughts. He didn't try to correct it. He'd made his gesture of respect, coming here; figuratively tipped his hat to his mother's memory, and to the man who'd reluctantly fathered him.

But chance, or some sense he was not even aware of, brought him back on to his intended course, and without even realizing it at first he stepped from the trees into the circle of clear ground where, eighteen years before, his life had been conjured. That was the right word. Not conceived; conjured. Fletcher had been a magician, of a kind. That was the only word Howie had been able to find to describe him. And he, Howie, had been a trick. Except that instead of applause and bouquets all they'd got—Howie, his mother and the magician—was misery and pain. He'd wasted valuable years in failing to come here sooner, and learning this essential fact about himself: that he was no desperado at all. Just a rabbit pulled from a hat, held up by the ears, and squirming.

He wandered towards the cave entrance, which was still fenced off and marked with police notices warning adventurers away. Standing at the barricade he peered down into the gaping hole in the ground. Somewhere down there in the dark his father had waited and waited, holding on to his enemy like death itself. Now there was only the comedian down there, and from what he'd gathered the corpse would never be recovered.

He looked up, and his whole system somersaulted. He wasn't alone. On the far side of the grave stood Jo-Beth.

He stared, convinced that she was going to disappear. She couldn't be here; not after last night. But his eyes kept seeing her.

They were too far apart for him to ask what she was doing here without raising his voice, which he didn't want to do. He wanted to hold the spell. And besides, did he really need an answer? She was here because he was here because she was here; and so on.

It was she who moved first, her hand going up to the button of the dark dress she wore, and undoing it. The expression on her face didn't seem to change, but he couldn't be certain he wasn't missing nuances. He'd taken off his spectacles when he'd stepped among the trees, and short of digging for them in his shirt pocket he could only watch, and wait, and hope the moment would come for them to approach each other. Meanwhile, she had unbuttoned the top of her dress, and now she slipped the buckle of the belt. Still he resisted making any approach, though it was barely within his power to control himself. She was letting the belt of her dress drop now, and, crossing her arms, took the hem in her hands to pull it up over her head. He didn't dare breathe, for fear he miss an instant of this ritual. She was wearing white underwear, but her breasts, when they came into view, were bare.

She had made him hard. He moved a little to adjust his position, which motion she took as her cue, dropping the dress to the ground and moving towards him. One step was enough. He started to walk towards her in his turn, each keeping close to their barricade. He shrugged off his jacket as he walked, and dropped it behind him.

As they came within a few feet of each other she said:

"I knew you'd be here. I don't know how. I was driving up from the Mall with Ruth—"

"Who?"

"That doesn't matter now. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Last night. I didn't trust you and I should have."

She put her hand to his face.

"Do you forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive," he said.

"I want to make love to you."

"Yes," he said, as though she hadn't needed to tell him, which was true.

It was easy. After all that had happened to separate them, it was easy. They were like magnets. However or whoever pulled them apart they were bound to come back together, like this; they couldn't help themselves. Didn't want to.

She started to pull his shirt from his trousers. He helped her, hauling it over his head. There were two seconds of darkness while it covered his face, in which her image, face, breasts and underwear, was as sharp in his head as a scene lit by lightning. Then she was there again, unbuckling his belt. He heeled off his shoes, then performed a monopodal dance to pull his socks off: Finally, he let his trousers drop and stepped out of them.

"I was afraid," she said.

"Not now. You're not afraid now."

"No."

"I'm not the Devil. I'm not Fletcher's. I'm yours."

"I love you."

She put her palms on his chest, and ran them outwards, as if smoothing pillows. He put his arms around her and pulled her towards him.

His dick was doing push-ups in his shorts. He placated it by kissing her, moving his hands down her back to the band of her panties, then sliding beneath. Her kisses were moving from his nose to chin, he licking at her lips when her mouth crossed his. She pressed her body against him.

"Here," she said softly.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Why not? No one to see us. I want to, Howie."

He smiled. She stepped away from him, going down on her knees in front of him and pulling his shorts down far enough that his dick sprang into view. She took hold of it gently, then suddenly harder, using her hold to bring him down to ground level. He knelt in front of her. She still didn't relinquish her hold, but rubbed him until he put his hand over hers and coaxed her fingers away.

"Not good?" she said.

"Too good," he breathed. "I don't want to shoot."

"Shoot?"

"Come. Spurt. Lose it."

"I want you to lose it," she said, lying down in front of him. His dick was now solid against his belly. "I want you to lose it in me."

He leaned over and put his hands on her hips, then began to pull her panties down. The hair around her slit was a darker blonde than her hair, but not much. He put his face to her, and licked between the lips. Her body tensed beneath him, then relaxed.

He ran his tongue up from her cunt to her navel, from her navel to her breasts, from her breasts to her face, until he was lying on top of her.

"I love you," he said, and entered her.

It was only as she was washing the bloodstains from the woman's neck that Tesla came to look more closely at the cross around her neck. She recognized it instantly, as a companion to the medallion Kissoon had shown her. The same central figure, spreadeagled; the same four lines of variations on the human spreading from it.

"Shoal," she said.

The woman opened her eyes. There was no period of coming-to. One moment she was to all intents and purposes asleep. The next her eyes were wide and alert. They were dark.