Imajica. Clive Barker
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down tears at the same time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I always get maudlin at Christmas. Will you fetch Clem for me? I need the bathroom.’
‘Can’t I help?’
‘There’s some things I still need Clem for. Thanks anyway.’
‘No problem.’
‘And for listening.’
She threaded her way to where Clem was chatting, and discreetly informed him of Taylor’s request.
‘You know Simone, don’t you?’ Clem said by way of an exit, and left Jude to talk.
She did indeed know Simone, though not well, and after the conversation she’d just had with Taylor, she found it difficult to whip up a social soufflé. But Simone was almost flirtatiously excessive in her responses, unleashing a gurgling laugh at the merest hint of a cue, and fingering her neck as though to mark the places she wanted kissed. Jude was silently rehearsing a polite refusal, when she caught Simone’s glance, ill concealed in a particularly extravagant laugh, flitting towards somebody elsewhere in the crowd. Irritated to be cast as a stooge for the woman’s vamping, she said:
‘Who is he?’
‘Who’s who?’ Simone said, flustered and blushing. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just some man who keeps staring at me.’
Her gaze went back to her admirer, and as it did so Jude was seized by the utter certainty that if she were to turn now it would be Gentle’s stare she intercepted. He was here, and up to his stale old tricks, threading himself a little string of gazes ready to pluck the prettiest when he tired of the game.
‘Why don’t you just go near and talk to him,’ she said.
‘I don’t know if I should.’
‘You can always change your mind if a better offer comes along.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Simone said, and without making any further attempt at conversation she took her laugh elsewhere.
Jude fought the temptation to follow her progress for fully two seconds, then glanced round. Simone’s wooer was standing beside the Christmas tree, smiling a welcome at his object of desire as she breasted her way through the crowd towards him. It wasn’t Gentle, after all, but a man she thought she remembered as Taylor’s brother. Oddly relieved, and irritated at herself for being so, she headed towards the drinks table for a refill, then wandered out into the hallway in search of some cooler air. There was a cellist on the half-landing, playing In the Bleak Midwinter, the melody and the instrument it was played upon combining to melancholy effect. The front door stood open, and the air through it raised goose bumps. She went to close it, only to have one of the other listeners discreetly whisper:
There’s somebody being sick out there.’
She glanced into the street. There was indeed somebody sitting on the edge of the pavement, in the posture of one resigned to the dictates of his belly: head down, elbows on his knees, waiting for the next surge. Perhaps she made a sound. Perhaps he simply felt her gaze on him. He raised his head, and looked round.
‘Gentle. What are you doing out here?’
‘What does it look like?’ He hadn’t looked too pretty last time she’d seen him, but he looked a damn sight worse now. Haggard, unshaven and waxy with nausea.
There’s a bathroom in the house.’
‘There’s a wheelchair up there,’ Gentle said, with an almost superstitious look. ‘I’d prefer to be sick out here.’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was virtually covered in paint. So was the other, she now saw; and his trousers, and his shirt.
‘You’ve been busy.’
He misunderstood. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk anything,’ he said.
‘Do you want me to get you some water?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going home. Will you say goodbye to Taylor and Clem for me? I can’t face going back in. I’ll disgrace myself.’ He got to his feet, stumbling a little. ‘We don’t seem to meet under very pleasant circumstances, do we?’ he said.
‘I think I should drive you home. You’ll either kill yourself or somebody else.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, raising his painted hands. ‘The roads are empty. I’ll be fine.’ He started to rummage in his pocket for his car keys.
‘You saved my life, let me return the favour.’
He looked up at her, his eyelids drooping. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’
She went back inside to say farewell on behalf of herself and Gentle. Taylor was back in his chair. She caught sight of him before he saw her. He was staring into the middle distance, his eyes glazed. It wasn’t sorrow she read in his expression, but a fatigue so profound it had wiped all feeling from him, except, maybe, regret for unsolved mysteries. She went to him, and explained that she’d found Gentle and that he was sick, and needed taking home.
‘Isn’t he going to come and say goodbye?’ Taylor said.
‘I think he’s afraid of throwing up all over the carpet, or you, or both.’
‘Tell him to call me. Tell him I want to see him soon.’ He took hold of Jude’s hand, holding it with surprising strength. ‘Soon, tell him.’
‘I will.’
‘I want to see that grin of his, one more time.’
‘There’ll be lots of times,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Once will have to do,’ he replied softly.
She kissed him, and promised she’d call to say she got home safely. On her way to the door she met Clem and once again made her apologies and farewells.
‘Call me if there’s anything I can do,’ she offered.
‘Thanks, but I think it’s a waiting game.’
Then we can wait together.’
‘Better just him and me,’ Clem said. ‘But I will call.’ He glanced towards Taylor, who was once more staring at nothing. ‘He’s determined to hold on till spring. One more spring, he keeps saying. He never gave a fuck about crocuses till now.’ Clem smiled. ‘You know what’s wonderful?’ he said. ‘I’ve fallen in love with him all over again.’
‘That is wonderful.’
‘And now I’m going to lose him, just when I realize what he means to me. You won’t make that mistake, will you?’ He looked at her hard. ‘You know who I mean.’
She nodded.
‘Good. Then you’d better take him home.’
2
The roads were as empty as she’d predicted, and it took only fifteen minutes to get back to Gentle’s studio. He wasn’t exactly coherent. On the way, the exchanges between them were full of gaps and discontinuities, as though his mind were running ahead of his tongue, or behind it. Drink wasn’t the culprit. Jude had seen Gentle drunk on all forms of alcohol: it made him roaring, randy and sanctimonious by turns. Never like this, with his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, talking from the bottom of a pit. One moment he was thanking her for looking after him, the next he was telling her not to mistake the paint on his hands for shit. It wasn’t shit, he kept saying, it was burnt umber, and Prussian blue, and cadmium yellow, but somehow when you mixed colours together, any colours, they always came out looking like shit eventually. This monologue dwindled into silence, from which, a minute or two later, a new subject emerged.
‘I can’t look at him, you know, the way he is …’
‘Who?’