Galilee. Clive Barker

      “I’ll look forward to that.”

      “So will I…” he said, his voice a little fainter now. “Well, I suppose I should let you ladies go back to the celebration.”

      “It’s been wonderful to meet you,” Sherrie said.

      “The pleasure’s all mine,” Cadmus replied. “Believe me. All mine.”

      

      “They just don’t make men like that any longer,” Sherrie observed when they were out of the old man’s presence.

      “You sound quite smitten,” Deanne said.

      “I’ll tell you this,” Sherrie replied, directing her remarks to Rachel, “if Mitchell is half the man he is, you won’t have a thing to complain about.”

       VIII

      i

      The third and final event I’m going to report took place long after dark, and it was the one that could have potentially spoiled the glory of the day.

      Let me first set the scene for you. The evening, as I’ve said, was balmy, and though the number of guests slowly dwindled as the hour grew later a lot of people stayed longer than they’d planned, to drink and chat and dance. The time and trouble that had been taken to hang the lanterns in the trees around the house paid off handsomely. Though about nine-thirty or so clouds came in from the northeast, the lamps more than compensated for the lack of stars; it was as though every tree had luminous fruit swaying in its branches, lilac and lemon and lime. It was a time for whispered expressions of love, and among the older folks, a renewal of vows and the making of promises. I’ll be kinder; I’ll be more attentive; I’ll care for you the way I used to care when we were first married.

      Nobody gave any thought to being spied on. With so many luminaries in attendance the security had been fierce. But now, with many of the more important guests already departed and the party winding down, the vigilance of the guards was not what it had been, so nobody saw the two photographers who scrambled over the wall to the east of the house. They didn’t find much that would please their editors. A few drunks passed out in their chairs, but nobody of any consequence. Disappointed, they moved on through the grounds, concealing their cameras beneath their jackets if they passed anyone who might question them, until they got to the edge of the dance floor. Here they decided to part.

      One of them—a fellow called Buckminster—went to the largest of the tents, hoping he might at least find some overweight celebrity still pigging out. His partner Penaloza headed on past the dance floor, where there were still a few couples enjoying a moody waltz, toward the trees.

      None of what Penaloza saw looked particularly promising. He knew the sordid laws of his profession by heart. The readers of the rags to whom he hoped to sell his pictures wanted to see somebody famous committing at least one—but hopefully several—deadly sins. Gluttony was good, avarice was okay; lust and rage were wonderful. But there was nothing significantly sinful going on under the lanterns, and Penaloza was about to turn back to see if he could talk his way into the house when he heard a woman, not far from him, laughing. There was a measure of unease in the sound which drew his experienced ear.

      The laughter came again, and this time he made out its source. And, oh my Lord, did he believe what he was seeing? Was that Meredith Bryson, the daughter of Senator Bryson, swaying drunkenly under the tree, her blouse unbuttoned and another woman’s face pressed between her breasts?

      Penaloza fumbled for his camera. Now there was a picture! Perhaps if he could just get a little closer, so that no one was in doubt as to Meredith’s identity. He took two cautious steps, ready to shoot and run if the need arose. But the women were completely enraptured with one another; if things got much more heated the picture would be unpublishable.

      There was no doubting the identity of the Bryson girl now; not with her head thrown back that way. He held his breath, and got off a shot. Then another. He’d have liked a third, but Meredith’s seducer had already seen him. She gallantly pushed the Bryson girl out of sight behind her, giving Penaloza one hell of a shot of her standing full on to him, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He didn’t wait for the bitch to start screaming.

      “Gotta go,” he grinned; then turned and ran.

      What happened next confounded his every expectation. Instead of hearing one or both of the women set up a chorus of tearful hollering, there was silence, except for the din of his own feet as he ran. And then suddenly there was somebody catching hold of the collar of his shirt, and swinging him around, and it was he who let out the yelp of complaint as his attacker wrenched his camera out of his hands.

       “You fucking scum!”

      It was Meredith’s lover, of course; though God knows she’d put on a supernatural turn of speed to catch up with him.

      “That’s mine!” he said, grabbing for his camera.

      “No,” she replied, very simply, and tossed it back over her shoulder.

      “Don’t touch it!” Penaloza yelled. “That camera is my property. If you so much as lay a finger on that camera I’ll sue you—”

      “Oh shut up,” the woman said, and slapped him across the face. The blow stung so badly his eyes watered.

      “You can’t do this,” he protested. “This is a Fifth Amendment issue.”

      The woman hit him again. “Amend that,” she said.

      Penaloza was a reasonably moral man. He didn’t take pleasure in hitting women; but sometimes it was a necessity. Blinking the tears out of his eyes he feinted to the right, and then swung a left that caught the woman’s jaw a solid crack. She let out a very satisfying yelp and stumbled backward, but to his surprise she was back at him before he recovered his own balance, throwing herself at him with such violence she brought them both to the ground.

      “Jesus!” he heard somebody say, and from the corner of his eyes saw Buckminster standing a few yards away, photographing the fight.

      Penaloza managed to pull one hand free and pointed toward his camera, which still lay on the grass a few yards from the senator’s daughter. “Grab it!” he yelled. “Buck! You shit! Pick up my camera!”

      But he was too late. The Bryson bitch was already there, snatching the camera up off the ground, and Buckminster—having decided he’d risked enough as it was—now turned on his heels and fled. Penaloza struggled to pull himself out of his attacker’s grip, but she’d pinned him down, her knees clamped to either side of his head, and he had no energy left to throw her off. All he could do was squirm like a child while she casually beckoned Meredith Bryson over.

      “Open the camera up, honey.” Meredith did so. “Now pull out the film.”

      Penaloza started to shout again; there were people coming to see what all the commotion was about. If one of them could prevent Meredith from opening the camera, he might still have his evidence. Too late! The back of the camera snapped open, and the Bryson girl pulled the film out.

      “Satisfied?” Penaloza growled.

      The woman perched on him considered the question for a moment. “Did anybody tell you how lovely you are?” she said, reaching behind her. She took hold of his balls, clutching them tightly. “What a fine, wholesome specimen of manhood you are?” She twisted his scrotum. He sobbed, more with anticipation than fear. “No?” she said.

      “…no…”

      “Good. Because you’re not. You’re a worthless piece of rat’s doo-doo.” She twisted again. “What are you?” If he’d had a gun at that moment he’d have happily put a bullet through the bitch’s brains. “What. Are. You?”