Imajica. Clive Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ find: half a dozen pea-sized beads, which had been obsessively carved. She’d seen oriental ivories worked with this level of care, but they’d always been behind museum glass. She took one of them to the window to study it more closely. The artist had carved the bead to give the impression that it was in fact a ball of gossamer thread, wound upon itself. Curious, and oddly inviting. As she turned it over in her fingers, and over, and over, she found her concentration narrowing, focusing on the exquisite interweaving of threads, almost as though there was an end to be found in the ball, and if she could only grasp it with her mind she might unravel it and discover some mystery inside. She had to force herself to look away, or she was certain the bead’s will would have overwhelmed her own, and she’d have ended up staring at its detail until she collapsed.

      She returned to the desk and put the bead back amongst its fellows. Staring at it so intently had upset her equilibrium somewhat. She felt slightly dizzy, the litter she’d left on the desk slipping out of focus as she rifled through it. Her hands knew what she wanted, however, even if her conscious thought didn’t. One of them picked up the fragment of blue stone, while her other strayed back to the bead she’d relinquished. Two souvenirs: why not? A piece of stone and a bead. Who could blame her for dispossessing Estabrook of such minor items when he’d intended her so much harm? She pocketed them both without further hesitation, and set about wrapping up the book and the remaining beads and returning them to the safe. Then she picked up the cloth in which the fragment had been wrapped, pocketed that, took the jewellery, and returned to the front door, turning off the lights as she went. At the door she remembered she’d opened the kitchen window, and headed back to close it. She didn’t want the place burgled in her absence. There was only one thief who had right of trespass here, and that was her.

      3

      She felt well satisfied with the morning’s work, and treated herself to a glass of wine with her spartan lunch, then started unpacking her loot. As she laid her hostage clothes out on the bed her thoughts returned to the pillow book. She regretted leaving it now; it would have been the perfect gift for Gentle, who doubtless imagined he’d indulged every physical excess known to man. No matter. She’d find an opportunity to describe its contents to him one of these days, and astonish him with her memory for depravity.

      A call from Clem interrupted her work. He spoke so softly she had to strain to hear. The news was grim. Taylor was at death’s door, he said, having two days before succumbed to another sudden bout of pneumonia. He refused to be hospitalized, however. His last wish, he’d said, was to die where he had lived.

      ‘He keeps asking for Gentle,’ Clem explained. ‘And I’ve tried to telephone him but he doesn’t answer. Do you know if he’s gone away?’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I haven’t spoken to him since Christmas Night.’

      ‘Could you try and find him for me? Or rather for Taylor. If you could maybe go round to the studio, and rouse him? I’d go myself but I daren’t leave the house. I’m afraid as soon as I step outside …’ he faltered, tears in his breath, ‘… I want to be here if anything happens.’

      ‘Of course you do. And of course I’ll go. Right now.’

      ‘Thanks. I don’t think there’s much time, Judy.’

      Before she left she tried calling Gentle, but as Clem had already warned her, nobody answered. She gave up after two attempts, put on her jacket, and headed out to the car. As she reached into her pocket for the keys she realized she’d brought the stone and the bead with her, and some superstition made her hesitate, wondering if she should deposit them back inside. But time was of the essence. As long as they remained in her pocket, who was going to see them? And even if they did, what did it matter? With death in the air who was going to care about a few purloined bits and pieces?

      She had discovered the night she’d left Gentle at the studio that he could be seen through the window if she stood on the opposite side of the street, so when he failed to answer the door that was where she went to spy him. The room seemed to be empty, but the bare bulb was burning. She waited a minute or so, and he stepped into view, shirtless and bedraggled. She had powerful lungs, and used them now, hollering his name. He didn’t seem to hear at first. But she tried again, and this time he looked in her direction, crossing to the window.

      ‘Let me in!’ she yelled. ‘It’s an emergency.’

      The same reluctance she read in his retreat from the window was on his face when he opened the door. If he had looked bad at the party, he looked considerably worse now.

      ‘What’s the problem?’ he said.

      ‘Taylor’s very sick, and Clem says he keeps asking for you.’ Gentle looked bemused, as though he was having difficulty remembering who Taylor and Clem were. ‘You have to get cleaned up and dressed,’ she said. ‘Furie, are you listening to me?’

      She’d always called him Furie when she was irritated with him, and that name seemed to work its magic now. Though she’d expected some objection from him, given his phobia where sickness was concerned, she got none. He looked too drained to argue, his stare somehow unfinished, as though it had a place it wanted to rest but couldn’t find. She followed him up the stairs into the studio.

      ‘I’d better clean up,’ he said, leaving her in the midst of the chaos and going into the bathroom.

      She heard the shower run. As ever, he’d left the bathroom door wide open. There was no bodily function, to the most fundamental, he’d ever shown the least embarrassment about, an attitude which had shocked her at first but which she’d taken for granted after a time, so that she’d had to re-learn the laws of propriety when she’d gone to live with Estabrook.

      ‘Will you find a clean shirt for me?’ he called through to her. ‘And some underwear?’

      It seemed to be a day for going through other people’s belongings. By the time she’d found a denim shirt and a pair of overwashed boxer shorts, he was out of the shower standing in front of the bathroom mirror combing his wet hair back from his brow. His body hadn’t changed since she’d last looked at it naked. He was as lean as ever, his buttocks and belly tight, his chest smooth. His hooded prick drew her eye; the part that truly gave the lie to Gentle’s name. It was no great size in this passive state, but it was pretty even so. If he knew he was being scrutinized he made no sign of it. He peered at himself in the mirror without affection, then shook his head.

      ‘Should I shave?’ he said.

      ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Here’s your clothes.’

      He dressed quickly, repairing to his bedroom to find a pair of boots, leaving her to idle in the studio while he did so. The painting of the couple she’d seen on Christmas Night had gone, and his equipment - paints, easel and primed canvases - had been unceremoniously dumped in a corner. In their place, newspapers, many of their pages bearing reports on a tragedy which she had only noted in passing: the death by fire of twenty-one men, women and children in an arson attack in South London. She didn’t give the reports close scrutiny. There was enough to mourn this gloomy afternoon.

      Clem was pale, but tearless. He embraced them both at the front door, then ushered them into the house. The Christmas decorations were still up, awaiting Twelfth Night, the perfume of pine needles sharpening the air. ‘Before you see him, Gentle,’ Clem said, ‘I should explain that he’s got a lot of drugs in his system, so he drifts in and out. But he wanted to see you so badly.’

      ‘Did he say why?’ Gentle asked.

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