Клайв Баркер – Sacrament (страница 6)

‘Unfair.’

‘You used to drive him crazy. He’d call me up sometimes and vent these streams of abuse—’

‘He is a melodramatic queen,’ Will said, fondly.

‘He said you were cryptic. You are. He said you were secretive. You’re that too.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘Don’t get intellectual. It pisses me off.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’

‘Now you’re changing the subject.’

‘I am not. You were talking about Patrick and now I’m talking about Patrick.’

‘I was talking about you.’

‘I’m bored with me. Have you talked to Patrick recently?’

Sure.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Up and down. He tried to sell the apartment but he couldn’t get the price he wanted so he’s staying put. He says it depresses him, living in the middle of the Castro. So many widowers, he says. But I think it’s better he’s there. Especially if he gets sicker. He’s got a strong support group of friends.’

‘Is whatsisname still around? The kid with the dyed eyelashes?’

‘You know his name, Will,’ Adrianna said, turning and narrowing her eyes.

‘Carlos,’ Will said.

‘Rafael.’

‘Close enough.’

‘Yes, he’s still around. And he doesn’t dye his eyelashes. He’s got beautiful eyes. In fact he’s a wonderful kid. I surely wasn’t as giving or as loving as he is at nineteen. And I’m damn sure you weren’t.’

‘I don’t remember nineteen,’ Will said. ‘Or twenty, come to that. I have a very vague recollection of twenty-one—’ He laughed. ‘But you get to a place when you’re so high you’re not high any more.’

‘And that was twenty-one?’

‘It was a very fine year for acid tabs.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘Je ne regrette rien.’ Will slurred, sloe-eyed. ‘No, that’s a lie. I wasted a lot of time in bars being picked up by men I didn’t like. And who probably wouldn’t have liked me if they’d taken the time to ask.’

‘What wasn’t to like?’

‘I was too needy. I wanted to be loved. No, I deserved to be loved. That’s what I thought, I deserved it. And I wasn’t. So I drank. It hurt less when I drank.’ He mused for a moment, staring into middle distance. ‘You’re right about Rafael. He’s better for Patrick than I ever was.’

‘Pat likes having a partner who’s there all the time,’ Adrianna said. ‘But he still calls you the love of his life.’

Will squirmed. ‘I hate that.’

‘Well you’re stuck with it,’ Adrianna replied. ‘Be grateful. Most people never have that in their lives.’

‘Speaking of love and adoration, how’s Glenn?’

‘Glenn doesn’t count. He’s in for the kids. I’ve got wide hips and big tits and he thinks I’ll be fertile.’

‘So when do you start?’

‘I’m not going to do it. The planet’s fucked enough without me turning out more hungry mouths.’

‘You really feel that?’

‘No, but I think it,’ Adrianna said. ‘I feel very broody, especially when I’m with him. So I keep away when there’s a chance, you know, I might give in.’

‘He must love that.’

‘It drives him crazy. He’ll leave me eventually. He’ll find some earth-mother who just wants to make babies.’

‘Couldn’t you adopt? Make you both happy?’

‘We talked about it, but Glenn’s determined to continue the family line. He says it’s his animal instincts.’

‘Ah, the natural man.’

This from a guy who plays in a string quartet for a living.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Let him go. Get myself a man who doesn’t care if he’s the last of his line, and still wants to fuck like a tiger on Saturday night.’

‘You know what?’

‘I should have been queer. I know. We would have made a lovely couple. Now, are you going to move your butt? This damn bear’s not going to wait forever.’

IV

i

As the afternoon light began to fail, the wind veered, and came out of the northeast across Hudson Bay, rattling the door and windows of Guthrie’s shack, like something lonely and invisible, wanting comfort at the table. The old man sat in his old leather armchair and savoured the gale’s din like a connoisseur. He had long ago given up on the charms of the human voice. It was more often than not a courier of lies and confusions, or so he had come to believe; if he never heard another syllable uttered in his life he would not think himself the poorer. All he needed by way of communication was the sound he was listening to now. The wind’s mourn and whine was wiser than any psalm, prayer or profession of love he’d ever heard.

But tonight the sound failed to soothe him as it usually did. He knew why. The responsibility lay with the visitor who’d come knocking on his door the night before. He’d disturbed Guthrie’s equilibrium, raising the phantoms of faces he’d tried so hard to put from his mind. Jacob Steep, with his soot-and-gold eyes, and black beard, and pale poet’s hands; and Rosa, glorious Rosa, who had the gold of Steep’s eyes in her hair, and the black of his beard in her gaze, but was as fleshy and passionate as he was sweatless and unmoved. Guthrie had known them for such a short time, and many years ago, but he had them in his mind’s eye so clearly he might have met them that morning.

He had Rabjohns there too: with his green milk eyes, too gentle by half, and his hair in unruly abundance, curling at his nape, and the wide ease of his face, nicked with scars on his cheek and brow. He hadn’t been scarred half enough, Guthrie thought; there was still some measure of hope in him. Why else had he come asking questions, except in the belief that they could be answered? He’d learn, if he lived long enough. There were no answers. None that made sense anyhow.

The wind gusted hard against the window, and loosened one of the boards Guthrie had taped over a cracked pane. He raised himself out of the pit of his chair and picking up the roll of tape he’d used to secure the board, crossed to the window to fix it. Before he stuck it back in place, blocking out the world, he stared through the grimy glass. The day was close to departure, the thickening waters of the Bay the colour of slate, the rocks black. He kept staring, distracted from his task not by the sight but by the memories which came to him still, unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to put from his head.

Words first. No more than a murmur. But that was all he needed.

These will not come again—

Steep was speaking, his voice majestic.

—nor this. Nor this—

And as he spoke the pages appeared in front of Guthrie’s grieving eyes; the pages of Steep’s terrible book. There, a perfect rendering of a bird’s wing, exquisitely coloured—

—nor this—

—and here, on the following page, a beetle, copied in death; every part documented for posterity: mandible, wing-case, and segmented limb.

—nor this—

‘Jesus,’ he sobbed, the roll of tape dropping from his trembling fingers. Why couldn’t Rabjohns have left him alone? Was there no corner of the world where a man might listen in the wail of the wind, without being discovered and reminded of his crimes?

The answer, it seemed, was no; at least for a soul as unredeemed as his. He could never hope to forget, not until God struck life and memory from him, which prospect seemed at this moment far less dreadful than living on, day and night, in fear of another Will coming to his door and naming names.

‘Nor this…’

Shut up, he murmured to memories. But the pages kept flipping in his head. Picture after picture, like some morbid bestiary. What fish was that, that would never again silver the sea? What bird, that would never tune its song to the sky?

On and on the pages flew, while he watched, knowing that at last Steep’s fingers would come to a page where he himself had made a mark. Not with a brush or a pen, but with a bright little knife.

And then the tears would begin to come in torrents, and it wouldn’t matter how hard the northeasterly blew, it could not carry the past away.