Cabal. Clive Barker

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       VI Feet of Clay

      The town was indeed empty, as he’d known it must be. Though the houses had seemed in good shape at half a mile’s distance, closer scrutiny showed them to be much the worse for being left unoccupied for the cycle of seasons. Though the feeling of well being still suffused him, he feared that loss of blood would undo him in time. He needed something to bind his wound, however primitive. In search of a length of curtaining, or a piece of forsaken bedlinen, he opened the door of one of the houses and plunged into the darkness within.

      He hadn’t been aware, until he was inside, how strangely attenuated his senses had become. His eyes pierced the gloom readily, discovering the pitiful debris the sometime tenants had left behind, all dusted by the dry earth years of prairie had borne in through broken window and the ill-fitting door. There was cloth to be found; a length of damp stained linen that he tore between teeth and right hand into strips while keeping his left upon the wound.

      He was in that process when he heard the creak of boards on the stoop. He let the bandaging drop from his teeth. The door stood open. On the threshold a silhouetted man, whose name Boone knew though the face was all darkness. It was Decker’s cologne he smelt; Decker’s heartbeat he heard; Decker’s sweat he tasted on the air between them.

      ‘So,’ said the doctor. ‘Here you are.’

      There were forces mustering in the starlit street. With ears preternaturally sharp Boone caught the sound of nervous whispers, and of wind passed by churning bowels, and of weapons cocked ready to bring the lunatic down should he try to slip them.

      ‘How did you find me?’ he said.

      ‘Narcisse, was it?’ Decker said. ‘Your friend at the hospital?’

      ‘Is he dead?’

      ‘I’m afraid so. He died fighting.’

      Decker took a step into the house.

      ‘You’re hurt,’ he said. ‘What did you do to yourself?’

      Something prevented Boone from replying. Was it that the mysteries of Midian were so bizarre he’d not be believed? Or that their nature was not Decker’s business? Not the latter surely. Decker’s commitment to comprehending the monstrous could not be in doubt. Who better then to share the revelation with? Yet he hesitated.

      ‘Tell me,’ Decker said again. ‘How did you get the wound?’

      ‘Later,’ said Boone.

      ‘There’ll be no later. I think you know that.’

      ‘I’ll survive,’ Boone said. ‘This isn’t as bad as it looks. At least it doesn’t feel bad.’

      ‘I don’t mean the wound. I mean the police. They’re waiting for you.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘And you’re not going to come quietly, are you?’

      Boone was no longer sure. Decker’s voice reminded him so much of being safe, he almost believed it would be possible again, if the doctor wanted to make it so.

      But there was no talk of safety from Decker now. Only of death.

      ‘You’re a multiple murderer, Boone. Desperate. Dangerous. It was tough persuading them to let me near you.’

      ‘I’m glad you did.’

      ‘I’m glad too,’ Decker replied. ‘I wanted a chance to say goodbye.’

      ‘Why does it have to be this way?’

      ‘You know why.’

      He didn’t; not really. What he did know, more and more certainly, was that Peloquin had told the truth.

      You’re not Nightbreed, he’d said.

      Nor was he; he was innocent.

      ‘I killed nobody,’ he murmured.

      ‘I know that,’ Decker replied.

      ‘That’s why I couldn’t remember any of the rooms. I was never there.’

      ‘But you remember now,’ Decker said.

      ‘Only because – ’ Boone stopped, and stared at the man in the charcoal suit. ‘ – because you showed me.’

      ‘Taught you,’ Decker corrected him.

      Boone kept staring, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t the one in his head. It couldn’t be Decker. Decker was Reason, Decker was Calm.

      ‘There are two children dead in Westlock tonight,’ the doctor was saying. ‘They’re blaming you.’

      ‘I’ve never been to Westlock,’ Boone protested.

      ‘But I have,’ Decker replied. ‘I made sure they saw the pictures; the men out there. Child murderers are the worst. It’d be better you died here than be turned over to them.’

      ‘You?’ Boone said. ‘You did it?’

      ‘Yes.’