Imajica. Clive Barker
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knew to dry and powder between Oscar’s toes with especial care, because he was prone to fungal infections there? Dowd was irreplaceable, and it had pained Oscar considerably to take the brutal measures circumstance had demanded. But he’d done so knowing that while there was a slim possibility that he would lose his servant forever, an entity such as Dowd could survive a disembowelling as long as the rituals of Resurrection were readily and precisely followed. Oscar was not in ignorance of those rituals. He’d spent many lazy Yzordderrexian evenings on the roof of Peccable’s house, watching the tail of the Comet disappear behind the towers of the Autarch’s palace, talking about the theory and practice of Imajical feits, writs, pneumas, uredos and the rest. He knew the oils to pour into Dowd’s carcass, and what blossoms to burn around the body. He even had in his treasure room a phonetic version of the ritual, set down by Peccable himself, in case Dowd was ever harmed. He had no idea how long the process would take, but he knew better than to peer beneath the sheet to see if the bread of life was rising. He could only bide his time, and hope he’d done all that was necessary.
At four minutes past four, he had proof of his precision. A choking breath was drawn beneath the sheet, and a second later Dowd sat up. The motion was so sudden, and - after such a time - so unexpected, Oscar panicked, his chair tipping over as he rose, the almanac flying from his hand. He’d seen much in his time that the people of the Fifth would call miraculous, but not in a dismal room like this, with the commonplace world grinding on its way outside the door. Composing himself, he searched for a word of welcome, but his mouth was so dry he could have blotted a letter with his tongue. He simply stared, gaping and amazed. Dowd had pulled the sheet off his face and was studying the hand with which he’d done so, his face as empty as the eyes of the voiders sitting against the opposite wall.
I’ve made a terrible error, Oscar thought. I’ve brought back the body, but the soul’s gone out of him; oh Christ, what now?
Dowd stared on, blankly. Then, like a puppet into which a hand had been inserted, bringing the illusion of life and independent purpose to senseless stuff, he raised his head, and his face filled with expression. It was all anger. He narrowed his eyes, and bared his teeth as he spoke.
‘You did me a great wrong,’ he said. ‘A terrible wrong.’
Oscar worked up some spittle, thick as mud. ‘I did what I deemed necessary,’ he replied, determined not to be cowed by the creature. It had been bound by Joshua never to do a Godolphin harm, much as it might presently wish to.
‘What have I ever done to you that you humiliate me that way?’ Dowd said.
‘I had to prove my allegiance to the Tabula Rasa. You understand why.’
‘And must I continue to be humiliated?’ he said. ‘Can I not at least have something to wear?’
‘Your suit’s stained.’
‘It’s better than nothing,’ Dowd replied.
The garments lay on the floor a few feet from where Dowd sat, but he made no move to pick them up. Aware that Dowd was testing the limits of his master’s remorse, but willing to play the game for a while at least, Oscar picked up the clothes and lay them within Dowd’s reach.
‘I knew a knife wasn’t going to kill you,’ he said.
‘It’s more than I did,’ Dowd replied. ‘But that’s not the point. I would have entered the game with you if that’s what you’d wanted. Happily; slavishly. Entered and died for you.’ His tone was that of a man deeply and inconsolably affronted. ‘Instead you conspire against me. You make me suffer like a common criminal.’
‘I couldn’t afford for it to look like a charade. If they’d suspected it was stage-managed - ‘
‘Oh I see,’ Dowd replied. Unwittingly Oscar had caused even greater offence with this justification. ‘You didn’t trust my actorly instincts. I’ve played every lead Quexos wrote. Comedy, tragedy, farce. And you didn’t trust me to carry off a petty little death-scene!’
‘All right, I was mistaken.’
‘I thought the knife stung badly enough. But this
‘Please, accept my apologies. It was crude and hurtful. What can I do to heal the harm, eh? Name it, Dowdy. I feel I’ve violated the trust between us and I have to make good. Whatever you want, just name it.’
Dowd shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘I know. But it’s a start. Name it.’
Dowd considered the offer for a full minute, staring not at Oscar but the blank wall. Finally, he said:
‘I’ll start with the assassin, Pie’oh’pah.’
‘What do you want with a mystif?’
‘I want to torment it. I want to humiliate it. And finally, I want to kill it.’
‘Why?’
‘You offered me whatever I wanted. Name it, you said. I’ve named it.’
‘Then you have carte blanche to do whatever you wish,’ Oscar said. ‘Is that all?’
‘For now,’ Dowd said. ‘I’m sure something more will occur. Death’s put some strange ideas in my head. But I’ll name them, as time goes by.’
1
While it was to prove difficult for Gentle to prise from Estabrook the details of the night-journey that had taken him to Pie’oh’pah, it was not as difficult as getting in to see the man in the first place. He went to the house around noon, to find the curtains at all the windows meticulously drawn. He knocked and rang the bell for several minutes, but there was no reply. Assuming Estabrook had gone out for a constitutional, he left off his attempt and went to find something to put into his stomach, which after being so thoroughly scorned the night before was echoing with its own emptiness. It was Boxing Day, of course, and there was no café or restaurant open, but he located a small supermarket managed by a family of Pakistanis, who were doing a fine trade supplying Christians with stale bread to break. Though the stock had disappeared from many of the shelves the store still had a tempting parade of toothdecayers, and Gentle left with chocolate, biscuits and cake to satisfy his sweet tooth. He found a bench, and sat down to subdue his hunger. The cake was too moist and heavy for his taste, so he broke it up into pieces and threw it to the pigeons his meal had attracted. The news soon spread that there was sustenance to be had, and what had been an intimate picnic quickly turned into a squabbling match. In lieu of loaves and fishes to subdue the mob, Gentle tossed the rest of his biscuits into the midst of the feasters, and returned to Estabrook’s house content with his chocolate. As he approached he saw a motion at one of the upper windows. He didn’t bother to ring and knock this time, but simply called up at the window.
‘I want a word, Charlie! I know you’re in there. Open up!’
When there was no sign of Estabrook obliging, he let his voice ring out a little louder. There was very little competition from traffic, this being a holiday. His call was a clarion.
‘Come on, Charlie, open up, unless you want me to tell the neighbours about our little deal.’
The curtain was drawn aside this time, and Gentle had his first sight of Estabrook. A glimpse only, for the curtain was dropped back into place a moment later. Gentle waited, and just as he was about to start his haranguing afresh heard the front door being unbolted. Estabrook appeared, barefoot and bald. The latter was a shock. Gentle hadn’t known the man wore a toupée. Without it his face was as round and as white as a plate, his features set upon it like a child’s breakfast. Eggs for eyes, a tomato nose, sausage lips; all swimming in a grease of fear.
‘It’s time we talked,’ Gentle said, and without waiting for an invitation, stepped