Mister B. Gone. Clive Barker
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such discomfort meant little when I had the pleasure of seeing the net beneath Gatmuss also tightening around him, and lifting him up as I was being lifted. There was one difference. While Gatmuss was cursing and struggling, attempting and failing to tear a hole in the net, I was feeling curiously calm. After all, I reasoned, how much worse could my life in the World Above be than the life I was leaving in the World Below, where I had known very little comfort, and no love, and had no future for myself beyond the kind of bitter, joyless lives that Momma and Pappy G. lived?
We were being lifted at quite a speed now, and I could see the landscape of my young life laid out below. The house, with Momma standing on the doorstep——a diminutive figure, far beyond the range of my loudest cries, even if I’d cared to try, which I didn’t. And there, spreading in all directions as far as my eyes could see, was the dismal spectacle of the wastelands, the peaks of trash that had seemed so immense when I’d been in their shadows, now inconsequential, even when they rose to mountainous heights as they defined the perimeter of the Ninth Circle. Beyond the Circle there was nothing. Only a void, an immense emptiness, neither black nor white, but an unfathomable grey.
“Jakabok! Are you listening to me?”
Gatmuss was haranguing me from his net, where, thanks in part to his own struggles, his huge frame was squashed up in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. His knees were pressed up against his face, while his arms stuck out of the net at odd angles.
“Yes, I’m listening,” I said.
“Is this something you set up? Something to make me look stupid?”
“You don’t need any help to do that,” I told him. “And no, of course I didn’t set this up. What an asinine question.”
“What’s asinine?”
“I’m not going to start trying to educate you now. It’s a lost cause. You were born a brute and you’ll die a brute, ignorant of anything but your own appetites.”
“You think you’re very clever, don’t you, boy? With your fancy words and your fancy manners. Well, they don’t impress me. I got a machete and a gun. And once we’re out of this stupid thing I’m going to come after you so fast you won’t have time to count your fingers before I cut them off. Or your toes. Or your nose.”
“I could scarcely count my nose, you imbecile. I only have one.”
“There you go again, sounding like you’re so high and mighty. You’re nothing, boy. You wait! You wait until I find my gun. Oh, the things I can do with that gun! I could shoot off what’s left of your babymaker, clean as a whistle!”
And so he went on, an endless outpouring of contempt and complaint, spiced with threats. In short, he hated me because when I’d been born Momma lost all interest in him. In past times, he said, when for some reason or another Momma’s attention had been distracted, he’d had a foolproof way of getting it back, but now he was afraid of using that trick again because he’d been happy to have a daughter, but another accidental son would only be a waste of breaths and beatings. One mistake was enough, more than enough, he said, and ranted about my general stupidity.
Meanwhile, we continued our ascent, which having begun a little jerkily was now smooth and speedy. We passed through a layer of clouded darkness into the Eighth Circle, emerging from a ragged crater in its rocky desolation. I had never strayed more than half a mile from my parents’ house, and had only the vaguest notion of how life was lived in other circles. I would have liked time to study the Eighth. But we were now traveling too fast for me to gain anything more than a fleeting impression of it: the Damned in their thousands, their naked backs bent to the labor of hauling some vast faceless edifice across the uneven terrain. Then I was temporarily blinded once again, this time by the darkness of the Eighth’s sky, only to emerge moments later spluttering and spitting, having been doused in the fetid fluid of some weed-throttled waterway of the swampy landscape of the Seventh. Perhaps it was the drenching in swamp water that got him mad or, simply, that the fact of what was happening to us had finally broken through his thick skull, but whichever it was, at this stage Pappy Gatmuss began to vilify me in the most foul language, blaming me, of course, for our present predicament.
“You are a waste of my seed, you witless moron, you bonehead, you jackass, you putrid little rattlebrain. I should have throttled the life out of you years ago, you damn retard! If I could reach my machete, I swear I’d hack you to pieces right here and now.”
He struggled as he accused me, attempting to get his arms to reach back towards the net, where I presume he had the machete. But he had been trapped by the net in such a way as to make any such movement impossible. He was stuck.
I, however, was not. I still had in my possession the knife I had picked up in the kitchen. It wasn’t a very large knife, but it was serrated, which was useful. It would do the job.
I reached out and started to saw at the rope that was holding up the net containing Pappy G. I knew I would have to be quick. We had already passed through the Sixth Circle and were rising through the Fifth. I paid no attention to the details of their topographies now. I just kept a mental count of their number. All the rest of my concentration went into working on the rope.
The outpouring of nauseating filth from the mouth of Pappy G. was growing more obscene, of course, as my little knife finally began to have some effect upon the rope. We were passing through the Fourth Circle now, but I couldn’t tell you a thing about it. I was sawing for my life, literally. If I failed to cut the rope before we reached our destination, which I assumed to be the World Above, and Gatmuss was freed from his net by whoever was hauling us up, he would slaughter me without need of machete or gun. He’d simply pull me limb from limb. I’d seen him do it to other demons, a lot larger than me.
It was powerful motivation, let me tell you, to hear my father’s threats and insults becoming ever more incomprehensible with fury until they finally turned into an incoherent outpouring of hatred. Once in a while I would glance down at his face, which was pressed tight against the confines of the net. His porcine features were turned up at me, his eyes fixed on me.
There was death in those eyes. My death, needless to say, rehearsed over and over in that testicle-sized brain of his. While it seemed to him he suddenly had my attention, he stopped piling insult upon insult and tried, as though I hadn’t heard all the obscenities he’d been spewing, to move me with absurdities.
“I love you, son.”
I had to laugh. I’d never been so entertained by something in my entire life. And there was more to come; all priceless idiocies.
“We’re different, sure. I’m mean, you’re a little guy and I’m …”
“Not?” I offered.
He grinned. Clearly we understood one another. “Right. Not. And when you’re not, like me, and your son is, then it’s not fair for me to be slapping him around night and day?”
I thought I’d confuse him by playing the demon’s advocate.
“Are you sure?” I asked him.
His grin withered a little now, and panic infected his tiny glittering eyes. “Shouldn’t I be?” he said.
“Don’t ask me. I’m not the one who’s telling me what he thinks is——”
“Ah!” he said, cutting me off in his haste to keep a thought he’d seized from escaping him, “that’s it! It isn’t right?”
“Isn’t it?” I said, still sawing away at the rope as the banter continued.
“This,” Pappy G. said. “It isn’t right. A son shouldn’t kill his own father.”
“Why not if his father tried to murder him?”
“Not murder, boy. Never murder. Toughen up a little, maybe. But murder? No, never. Never.”
“Well, Pappy, that makes you a better father than it does me a son,” I said to him. “But it isn’t going to stop me cutting this rope and it’s a very