Imajica. Clive Barker

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      He didn’t step away, nor did he finish. She glimpsed a movement behind him, and he saw her look, turning his head in time to meet a blow. He stumbled but didn’t fall, turning his motion to attack with balletic ease, and coming back at the other man with tremendous force. It wasn’t Freddy, she saw. It was Gentle, of all people. The assassin’s blow threw him back against the wall, hitting it so hard he brought books tumbling from the shelves, but before the assassin’s fingers found his throat he delivered a punch to the man’s belly that must have touched some tender place, because the assault ceased, and the attacker let him go, his eyes fixed for the first time on Gentle’s face.

      The expression of pain in his face became something else entirely: in some part horror, in some part awe, but in the greatest part some sentiment for which she knew no word. Gasping for breath, Gentle registered little or none of this, but pushed himself up from the wall to re-launch his attack. The assassin was quick, however. He was at the door and out through it before Gentle could lay hands on him. Gentle took a moment to ask if Judith was all right - which she was - then raced in pursuit.

      The snow had come again, its veil dropping between Gentle and Pie. The assassin was fast, despite the hurt done him, but Gentle was determined not to let the bastard slip. He chased Pie over Park Avenue, and West on 80th, his heels sliding on the sleet-slickened ground. Twice his quarry threw him backward glances, and on the second occasion seemed to slow his pace, as if he might stop and attempt a truce, but then thought better of it and put on an extra turn of speed. It carried him over Madison towards Central Park. If he reached its sanctuary, Gentle knew, he’d be gone. Throwing every last ounce of energy into the pursuit, he came within snatching distance. But even as he reached for the man he lost his footing. He fell headlong, his arms flailing, and struck the street hard enough to lose consciousness for a few seconds. When he opened his eyes, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth, he expected to see the assassin disappearing into the shadows of the park, but the bizarre Mr Pie was standing at the kerb looking back at him. He continued to watch as Gentle got up, his face betraying a mournful empathy with Gentle’s bruising. Before the chase could begin again he spoke, his voice as soft and melting as the sleet.

      ‘Don’t follow me,’ he said.

      ‘You leave her … the fuck … alone,’ Gentle gasped. knowing even as he spoke he had no way of enforcing this edict in his present state.

      But the man’s reply was affirmation.

      ‘I will,’ he said. ‘But please … I beg you … forget you ever set eyes on me.’

      As he spoke he began to take a backward step, and for an instant Gentle’s dizzied brain almost thought it possible the man would retreat into nothingness; be proved spirit rather than substance.

      ‘Who are you?’ he found himself asking.

      ‘Pie’oh’pah,’ the man returned, his voice perfectly matched to the soft expellations of those syllables.

      ‘But who?’

      ‘Nobody and nothing,’ came the second reply, accompanied by a backward step.

      He took another and another, each pace putting further layers of sleet between them. Gentle began to follow, but the fall had left him aching in every joint, and he knew the chase was lost before he’d hobbled three yards. He pushed himself on, however, reaching one side of Fifth Avenue as Pie’oh’pah made the other. The street between them was empty, but the assassin spoke across it as if across a raging river.

      ‘Go back,’ he said, ‘or if you come, be prepared

      Absurd as it was, Gentle answered as if there were white waters between them:

      ‘Prepared for what?’ he shouted.

      The man shook his head, and even across the street, with the sleet between them, Gentle could see how much despair and confusion there was on his face. He wasn’t certain why the expression made his stomach churn, but churn it did. He started to cross the street, plunging a foot into the imaginary flood. The expression on the assassin’s face changed: despair gave way to disbelief, and disbelief to a kind of terror, as though this fording was unthinkable, unbearable. With Gentle halfway across the street the man’s courage broke. The shaking of the head became a violent fit of denial, and he let out a strange sob, throwing back his head as he did so. Then he retreated, as he had before, stepping away from the object of his terror -Gentle - as though expecting to forfeit his visibility. If there was such magic in the world - and tonight Gentle could believe it - the assassin was not an adept. But his feet could do what magic could not. As Gentle reached the river’s other bank Pie’oh’pah turned and fled, throwing himself over the wall into the park without seeming to care what lay on the other side: anything to be out of Gentle’s sight.

      There was no purpose in following any further. The cold was already making Gentle’s bruised bones ache fiercely, and in such a condition the two blocks back to Jude’s apartment would be a long and painful trek. By the time he made it the sleet had soaked through every layer of his clothing. With his teeth chattering, his mouth bleeding and his hair flattened to his skull he could not have looked less appealing as he presented himself at the front door. Jude was waiting in the lobby with the shame-faced doorman. She came to Gentle’s aid as soon as he appeared, the exchange between them short and functional: was he badly hurt? No. Did the man get away? Yes.

      ‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘You need some medical attention.’

      3

      There had been too much drama in Jude and Gentle’s reunion already tonight for them to add more to it, so there was no gushing forth of sentiment on either side. Jude attended to Gentle with her usual pragmatism. He declined a shower, but bathed his face and wounded extremities, delicately sluicing the grit from the palms of his hands. Then he changed into a selection of dry clothes she’d found in Marlin’s wardrobe, though Gentle was both taller and leaner than the absent lender. As he did so Jude asked him if he wanted to have a doctor examine him. He thanked her but said no, he’d be fine. And so he was, once dry and clean; aching, but fine.

      ‘Did you call the police?’ he asked, as he -stood at the kitchen door watching her brew Darjeeling.

      ‘It’s not worth it,’ she said. ‘They already know about this guy from the last time. Maybe I’ll get Marlin to call them later.’

      ‘This is his second try?’ She nodded. ‘Well, if it’s any comfort, I don’t think he’ll try again.’

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘Because he looked about ready to throw himself under a car.’

      ‘I don’t think that’d do him much harm,’ she said, and went on to tell him about the incident in the Village, finishing up with the assassin’s miraculous recovery.

      ‘He should be dead,’ she said. ‘His face was smashed up … it was a wonder he could even stand. Do you want sugar or milk?’

      ‘Maybe a dash of Scotch. Does Marlin drink?’

      ‘He’s not a connoisseur like you.’

      Gentle laughed. ‘Is that how you describe me? The alcoholic Gentle?’

      ‘No. To tell you the truth, I don’t really describe you at all,’ she said, slightly abashed. ‘I mean, I’m sure I’ve mentioned you to Marlin in passing, but you’re … I don’t know … you’re a guilty secret.’

      This echo of Kite Hill brought his hirer to mind.

      ‘Have you spoken to Estabrook?’ he said.

      ‘Why should I do that?’

      ‘He’s been trying to contact you.’

      ‘I don’t want to talk to him.’ She put his tea down on the table in the lounge, sought out the Scotch and set it beside the cup. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

      ‘You’re