Imajica. Clive Barker

towards him abundantly clear, of course, and common sense decreed that he leave this little drama to fizzle out, but he’d glimpsed too many enigmas tonight to be able to shrug off his unease and walk away. Though the streets of this city were solid, their buildings numbered and named; though the avenues were bright enough, even at night, to banish ambiguity, he still felt as though he was on the margins of some unknown land, and in danger of crossing into it without realizing he was even doing so. And if he went, might Jude not also follow? Determined though she was to divide her life from his, the obscure suspicion remained in him that their fates were interwoven.

      He had no logical explanation for this. The feeling was a mystery, and mysteries weren’t his speciality. They were the stuff of after-dinner conversation when, mellowed by brandy and candlelight, people confessed to fascinations they wouldn’t have broached an hour earlier. Under such influence he’d heard rationalists confess their devotion to tabloid astrologies; heard atheists lay claim to heavenly visitations; heard tales of psychic siblings, and prophetic deathbed pronouncements. They’d all been amusing enough, in their way. But this was something different. This was happening to him, and it made him afraid.

      He finally gave in to his unease. He located Marlin’s number, and called the apartment. The lover-boy picked up. He sounded agitated, and became more so when Gentle identified himself.

      ‘I don’t know what your Goddamn game is -’ he said.

      ‘It’s no game,’ Gentle told him.

      ‘You just keep away from this apartment -’

      ‘I’ve no intention -’

      ‘- because if I see your face, I swear -’

      ‘Can I speak to Jude?’

      ‘- Judith’s not -’

      ‘I’m on the other line,’ Jude said.

      ‘Judith, put down the phone! You don’t want to be talking with this scum.’

      ‘Calm down, Marlin.’

      ‘You heard her, Mervin. Calm down.’

      Marlin slammed down the receiver.

      ‘Suspicious, is he?’ Gentle said.

      ‘He thinks this is all your doing.’

      ‘So you told him about Estabrook?’

      ‘No, not yet.’

      ‘You’re just going to blame the hired hand, is that it?’

      ‘Look, I’m sorry about some of the things I said. I wasn’t thinking straight. If it hadn’t been for you maybe I’d be dead by now.’

      ‘No maybe about it,’ Gentle said. ‘Our friend Pie meant business.’

      ‘He meant something,’ she replied, ‘but I’m not sure it was murder.’

      ‘He was trying to smother you, Jude.’

      ‘Was he? Or was he just trying to hush me? He had such a strange look

      ‘I think we should talk about this, face to face,’ Gentle said. ‘Why don’t you slip away from lover-boy for a latenight drink? I can pick you up right outside your building. You’ll be quite safe.’

      ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’ve got packing to do. I’ve decided to go back to London tomorrow.’

      Was that planned?’

      ‘No. I’d just feel more secure if I was at home.’

      ‘Is Mervin going with you?’

      ‘It’s Marlin. And no he isn’t.’

      ‘More fool him.’

      ‘Look, I’d better go. Thanks for thinking of me.’

      ‘It’s no hardship,’ he said. ‘And if you get lonely between now and tomorrow morning

      ‘I won’t.’

      ‘You never know. I’m at the Omni. Room 103. There’s a double bed.’

      ‘You’ll have plenty of room then.’

      ‘I’ll be thinking of you,’ he said. He paused, then added: ‘I’m glad I saw you.’

      ‘I’m glad you’re glad.’

      ‘Does that mean you’re not?’

      ‘It means I’ve got packing to do. Goodnight, Gentle.’

      ‘Goodnight.’

      ‘Have fun.’

      He did what little packing of his own he had to do, then ordered up a small supper: a club sandwich, ice-cream, bourbon and coffee. The warmth of the room after the icy street and its exertions made him feel sluggish. He undressed, and ate his supper naked in front of the television, picking the crumbs from his pubic hair like lice. By the time he got to the ice-cream he was too weary to eat, so he downed the bourbon - which instantly took its toll - and retired to bed, leaving the television on in the next room, its sound turned down to a soporific burble.

      His body and his mind were about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated and digested. The latter went dreaming. First, of Manhattan served on a plate, sculpted in perfect detail. Then of a waiter, speaking in a whisper, asking if sir wanted night; and of night coming in the form of a blueberry syrup, poured from high above the plate, and falling in viscous folds upon the streets and towers. Then, Gentle walking in those streets, between those towers, hand in hand with a shadow, the company of which he was happy to keep, and which turned when they reached an intersection, and laid its feather finger upon the middle of his brow, as though Ash Wednesday was dawning.

      He liked the touch, and opened his mouth to lightly lick the ball of the shadow’s hand. It stroked the place again. He shuddered with pleasure, wishing he could see into the darkness of this other, and know its face. In straining to see, he opened his eyes, body and mind converging once again. He was back in his hotel room, the only light the flicker of the television, reflected in the gloss of a half-open door. Though he was awake the sensation continued, and to it was added sound: a milky sigh that excited him. There was a woman in the room.

      ‘Jude?’ he said.

      She pressed her cool palm against his open mouth, hushing his enquiry even as she answered it. He couldn’t distinguish her from the darkness, but any lingering doubt that she might belong to the dream from which he’d risen was dispatched as her hand went from his mouth to his bare chest. He reached up in the darkness to take hold of her face and bring it down to his mouth, glad that the murk concealed the satisfaction he wore. She’d come to him. After all the signals of rejection she’d sent out at the apartment - despite Marlin, despite the dangerous streets, despite the hour, despite their bitter history - she’d come, bearing the gift of her body to his bed.

      Though he couldn’t see her, the darkness was a black canvas, and he painted her there to perfection, her beauty gazing down on him. His hands found her flawless cheeks. They were cooler than her hands, which were on his belly now, pressing harder as she hoisted herself over him. There was everywhere in their exchange an exquisite synchronicity. He thought of her tongue, and tasted it; he imagined her breasts, and she took his hands to them; he wished she would speak, and she spoke (oh, how she spoke), words he hadn’t dared admit he’d wanted to hear.

      ‘I had to do this …’ she said.

      ‘I know. I know.’

      ‘Forgive me …’

      ‘What’s to forgive?’

      ‘I can’t be without you, Gentle. We belong to each other, like man and wife.’

      With her here, so close after such an absence, the idea of marriage didn’t seem so preposterous. Why not claim her now, and forever?

      ‘You want to marry