Imajica. Clive Barker

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      ‘We mustn’t seem to be too eager to prostrate ourselves,’ he observed as they approached the Tower for a second time. ‘It’ll only make them arrogant.’

      ‘Shall I wait down here?’

      ‘Cold and lonely? My dear Dowdy, out of the question. We’ll ascend together, bearing gifts.’

      ‘What gifts?’

      ‘Our wit, our taste in suits - well, my taste - in essence, ourselves.’

      They got out of the car, and went to the porch, their every step monitored by cameras mounted above the door. The lock clicked as they approached, and they stepped inside. As they crossed the foyer to the lift Godolphin whispered:

      ‘Whatever happens tonight, Dowdy, please remember - ‘

      He got no further. The lift doors opened, and Bloxham appeared, as preening as ever.

      ‘Pretty tie,’ Oscar said to him. ‘Yellow’s your colour.’ The tie was blue. ‘Don’t mind my man Dowd here, will you? I never go anywhere without him.’

      ‘He’s got no place here tonight,’ Bloxham said.

      Again, Dowd offered to wait below, but Oscar would have none of it. ‘Heaven forfend,’ he said. ‘You can wait upstairs. Enjoy the view.’

      All this irritated Bloxham mightily, but Oscar was not an easy man to deny. They ascended in silence. Once on the top floor Dowd was left to entertain himself, and Bloxham led Godolphin through to the chamber. They were all waiting, and there was accusation on every face. A few - Shales, certainly, and Charlotte Feaver - didn’t attempt to disguise their pleasure that the Society’s most ebullient and unrepentant member was here finally called to heel.

      ‘Oh I’m sorry …’ Oscar said, as they closed the doors behind him. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

      Outside, in one of the deserted ante-chambers, Dowd listened to his tinny little radio and mused. At seven the news bulletin brought a report of a motorway collision which had claimed the lives of an entire family travelling north for Christmas, and of prison riots that had ignited in Bristol and Manchester, with inmates claiming that presents from loved ones had been tampered with and destroyed by prison officers. There was the usual collection of war updates, then the weather report, which promised a grey Christmas, accompanied by a spring-like balm. This would on past experience coax the crocuses out in Hyde Park, only to be spiked by frost in a few days’ time. At eight, still waiting by the window, a second bulletin corrected one of the reports from the first. A survivor had been claimed from the entangled vehicles on the motorway: a tot of three months, found orphaned but unscathed in the wreckage. Sitting in the cold gloom, Dowd began to weep quietly, which was an experience as far beyond his true emotional capacity as cold was beyond his nerve-endings. But he’d trained himself in the craft of grief with the same commitment to feigning humanity as he had learning to shiver; his tutor, the Bard; Lear his favourite lesson. He cried for the child, and for the crocuses, and was still moist-eyed when he heard the voices in the chamber suddenly rise up in rage. The door was flung open, and Oscar called him in, despite shouts of complaint from some of the other members.

      This is an outrage, Godolphin!’ Bloxham yelped.

      ‘You drove me to it!’ was Oscar’s reply, his performance at fever pitch. Clearly he’d been having a bad time of it. The sinews in his neck stood out like knotted string; sweat gleamed in the pouches beneath his eyes; every word brought flecks of spittle. ‘You don’t know half of it!’ he was saying. ‘Not the half. We’re being conspired against, by forces we can barely conceive of. This man Chant was undoubtedly one of their agents. They can take human form!’

      ‘Godolphin, this is absurd,’ Tyrwhitt said.

      ‘You don’t believe me?’

      ‘No, I don’t. And I certainly don’t want your bum-boy here listening to us debate. Will you please remove him from the Chamber?’

      ‘But he has evidence to support my thesis,’ Oscar insisted.

      ‘Oh, does he?’ said Shales.

      ‘He’ll have to show you himself,’ Oscar said, turning to Dowd. ‘You’re going to have to show them, I’m afraid,’ he said, and as he spoke reached into his jacket.

      An instant before the blade emerged Dowd realized Godolphin’s intent, and started to turn away, but Oscar had the edge, and it came forth glittering. Dowd felt his master’s hand on his neck, and heard shouts of horror on all sides. Then he was thrown back across the table, sprawling beneath the lights like an unwilling patient. The surgeon followed through with one swift stab, striking Dowd in the middle of his chest.

      ‘You want proof?’ Oscar yelled, through Dowd’s screams, and the din of shouts around the table. ‘You want proof? Then here it is!’

      His bulk put weight behind the blade, driving it first to the right then to the left, encountering no obstruction from rib or breastbone. Nor was there blood; only a fluid the colour of brackish water, that dribbled from the wounds and ran across the table. Dowd’s head thrashed to and fro as this indignity was visited upon him, only once raising his gaze to stare accusingly at Godolphin, who was too busy about this undoing to return the look. Despite protests from all sides he didn’t halt his labours until the body before him had been opened from navel to throat, and Dowd’s thrashings had ceased. The stench from the carcass filled the Chamber; a pungent mixture of sewage and vanilla. It drove two of the witnesses to the door, one of them Bloxham, whose nausea overtook him before he could reach the corridor. But his gaggings and moans didn’t slow Godolphin by a beat. Without hesitation he plunged his arm into the open body and, rummaging there, pulled out a fistful of gut. It was a knotty mass of blue and black tissue - final proof of Dowd’s inhumanity. Triumphant, he threw the evidence down on the table beside the body, then stepped away from his handiwork, chucking the knife into the wound it had opened. The whole performance had taken no more than a minute, but in that time he’d succeeded in turning the Chamber’s table into a fish-market gutter.

      ‘Satisfied?’ he said.

      All protest had been silenced. The only sound was the rhythmical hiss of fluid escaping an opened artery.

      Very quietly McGann said:

      ‘You’re a fucking maniac.’

      Oscar reached gingerly into his trouser pocket and teased out a fresh handkerchief. One of poor Dowd’s last tasks had been its pressing. It was immaculate. He shook out its scalpel creases and began to clean his hands.

      ‘How else was I going to prove my point?’ he said. ‘You drove me to this. Now there’s the evidence, in all its glory. I don’t know what happened to Dowd - my bum-boy I think you called him, Alice - but wherever he is this thing took his place.’

      ‘How long have you known?’ Charlotte asked.

      ‘I’ve suspected for the last two weeks. I was here in the city all the time; watching its every move while it - and you - thought I was disporting myself in sunnier climes.’

      ‘What the bugger is it?’ Lionel wanted to know, prodding a scrap of alien entrail with his finger.

      ‘God alone knows,’ Godolphin said. ‘Something not of this world, clearly.’

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