The Great and Secret Show. Clive Barker

isn’t it? And the Art lets you step through, so you can be there any time you like. The Finger in the Pie.’

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘That’s what somebody called it. The Finger in the Pie.’

      ‘Why stop with a finger?’ Kissoon remarked.

      ‘Right! Why not my whole fucking arm?’

      Kissoon’s expression was almost admiring. ‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t be more evolved. Then maybe I could have shared all this with you.’

      ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘I’m saying you’re too much of an ape. I couldn’t give you the secrets in my head. They’re too powerful, too dangerous. You’d not know what to do with them. You’d end up tainting Quiddity with your puerile ambition. And Quiddity must be preserved.’

      ‘I told you … I’m not leaving here empty-handed. You can have whatever you want from me. Whatever I’ve got. Only teach me.’

      ‘You’d give me your body?’ Kissoon said. ‘Would you?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘That’s all you’ve got to bargain with. Do you want to give me that?’

      The reply flummoxed Jaffe.

      ‘You want sex?’ he said.

      ‘Christ, no.’

      ‘What then? I don’t understand.’

      ‘The flesh and blood. The vessel. I want to occupy your body.’

      Jaffe watched Kissoon watching him.

      ‘Well?’ the old man said.

      ‘You can’t just climb into my skin,’ Jaffe said.

      ‘Oh but I can, as soon as it’s vacated.’

      ‘I don’t believe you.’

      ‘Jaffe, you of all people should never say I don’t believe. The extraordinary’s the norm. There are loops in time. We’re in one now. There are armies in our minds, waiting to march. And suns in our groins and cunts in the sky. Suits being wrought in every state –’

      

      ‘Suits?’

      ‘Petitions! Conjurations! Magic, magic! It’s everywhere. And you’re right, Quiddity is the source, and the Art its lock and key. And you think it’s tough for me to climb inside your skin. Have you learned nothing?’

      ‘Suppose I agree.’

      ‘Suppose you do.’

      ‘What happens to me, if I was to vacate my body?’

      ‘You’d stay here. As spirit. It’s not much but it’s home. I’ll be back, after a while. And the flesh and blood’s yours again.’

      ‘Why do you even want my body?’ Jaffe said. ‘It’s utterly fucked up.’

      ‘That’s my business,’ Kissoon replied.

      ‘I need to know.’

      ‘And I choose not to tell you. If you want the Art then you damn well do as I say. You’ve got no choice.’

      The old man’s manner – his arrogant little smile, his shrugs, the way he half closed his lids as though using all his gaze on his guest would be a waste of eyesight – all of this put Jaffe in mind of Homer. They could have been two halves of a double-act; the lumpen boor and the wily old goat. When he thought of Homer he inevitably thought of the knife in his pocket. How many times would he need to slice Kissoon’s stringy carcass before the agonies made him speak? Would he have to take off the old man’s fingers, joint by joint? If so, he was ready. Maybe cut off his ears. Perhaps scoop out his eyes. Whatever it took, he’d do. It was too late now for squeamishness, much too late.

      He slid his hand into his pocket, and around the knife.

      Kissoon saw the motion.

      ‘You understand nothing, do you?’ he said, his eyes suddenly roving violently to and fro, as though speed-reading the air between him and Jaffe.

      ‘I understand a lot more than you think,’ Jaffe said. ‘I understand I’m not pure enough for you. I’m not – how did you say it? – evolved. Yeah, evolved.’

      ‘I said you were an ape.’

      ‘Yeah, you did.’

      ‘I insulted the ape.’

      Jaffe’s hold on the knife tightened. He started to get to his feet.

      ‘Don’t you dare,’ Kissoon said.

      ‘Red rag to a bull,’ Jaffe said, his head spinning from the effort of rising, ‘– saying dare to me. I’ve seen stuff … done stuff …’ He started to take the knife out of his pocket ‘… I’m not afraid of you.’

      Kissoon’s eyes stopped their speed-reading and settled on the blade. There was no surprise on his face, the way there’d been on Homer’s; but there was fear. A small thrill of pleasure coursed through Jaffe, seeing that expression.

      Kissoon began to get to his feet. He was a good deal shorter than Jaffe, almost stunted, and every angle slightly askew, as though all his bones and joints had once been broken, and re-set in haste.

      ‘You shouldn’t spill blood,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Not in a Loop. It’s one of the rules of the looping suit, not to spill blood.’

      ‘Feeble,’ said Jaffe, beginning to step around the fire towards his victim.

      ‘That’s the truth,’ Kissoon said, and he gave Jaffe the strangest, most misbegotten smile, ‘I make it a point of honour not to lie.’

      ‘I had a year working in a slaughterhouse,’ Jaffe said. ‘In Omaha, Nebraska. Gateway to the West. I worked for a whole year, just cutting up meat. I know the business.’

      Kissoon was very frightened now. He’d backed against the wall of the hut, his arms spread out to either side of him for support, looking, Jaffe thought, like a silent-movie heroine. His eyes weren’t half-open now, but huge and wet. So was his mouth, huge and wet. He couldn’t even bring himself to make threats; he just shook.

      Jaffe reached out and put his hand around the man’s turkey throat. He gripped hard, fingers and thumb digging into the sinew. Then he brought his other hand, bearing the blunt knife, up to the corner of Kissoon’s left eye. The old man’s breath smelt like a sick man’s fart. Jaffe didn’t want to inhale it, but he had no choice, and the moment he did he realized he’d been fucked. The breath was more than sour air. There was something else in it, being expelled from Kissoon’s body and snaking its way into him – or at least attempting to. Jaffe took his hand from the scrawn of the neck, and stepped away.

      ‘Fucker!’ he said, spitting and coughing out the breath before it occupied him.

      Kissoon didn’t concede the pretence.

      ‘Aren’t you going to kill me?’ he said. ‘Am I reprieved?’

      It was he who advanced now; Jaffe the one retreating.

      ‘Keep away from me!’ Jaffe said.

      ‘I’m just an old man!’

      ‘I felt the breath!’ Jaffe yelled, slamming his fist against his chest. ‘You’re trying to get inside me!’

      ‘No,’ Kissoon protested.

      ‘Don’t fucking lie to me. I felt it!’

      He still could. A weight in his lungs where there’d not been weight before. He backed towards the door, knowing that if he stayed the fucker would have the better of him.

      ‘Don’t