Barker, Clive - Books of Blood Vol. 4

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THE

INHUMAN

CONDITION

Tales of Terror

Books of Blood, Volume IV

CLIVE BARKER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to: Doug Bennett, who got me into Pentonville-and out again-in the same day

and later furnished me with his insights on prisons and the prison service; to Jim Burr, for

his mind's eye tour of White Deer, Texas, and for the New York adventures; to Ros Stanwell-

Smith, for her enthusiastic detailing of plagues and how to start them; and to Barbara

Boote, my tireless editor, whose enthusiasm has proved the best possible spur to invention.

CONTENTS

The Inhuman Condition

The Age of Desire

THE INHUMAN CONDITION

ARE YOU the one then?" Red demanded, seizing hold of the derelict by

the shoulder of his squalid

gabardine.

"What one d'you mean?" the dirt-caked face replied. He was scanning the

quartet of young men who'd cornered him with rodent's eyes. The tunnel where

they'd found him relieving himself was far from hope of help. They all knew it and

so, it seemed, did he. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been showing yourself to children," Red said.

Pope, the old man muttered. Mr. Pope.

Brendan grinned. "Mr. Pope?" he said. "Well, we heard you've been exposing

that rancid little prick of yours to innocent children. What do you say to that?"

"No," Pope replied, again shaking his head. "That's not true. I never done

nothing like that." When he frowned the filth on his face cracked like crazy

paving, a second skin of grime which Was the accrual of many months. Had it not

been for the fragrance of alcohol off him, which obscured the worst of his bodily

stench, it would have been nigh on impossible to stand within a yard of him. The

man was human refuse, a shame to his species.

"Why bother with him?" Karney said. "He stinks."

Red glanced over his shoulder to silence the interruption. At seventeen, Karney

was the youngest, and in the quartet's unspoken hierarchy scarcely deserving of an

opinion. Recognizing his error, he shut up, leaving Red to return his attention to

the vagrant. He pushed Pope back against the wall of the tunnel. The old man

expelled a cry as he struck the concrete; it echoed back and forth. Karney,

knowing from past experience how the scene would go from here, moved away

and studied a gilded cloud of gnats on the edge of the tunnel. Though he enjoyed

being with Red and the other two-the camaraderie, the petty larceny, the drinking-

this particular game had never been much to his taste. He couldn't see the sport in

finding some drunken wreck of a man like Pope and beating what little sense was

left in his deranged head out of him. It made Karney feel dirty, and he wanted no

part of it.

lovers Now, in the middle of a clammy afternoon, the track was deserted in both

directions.

"Hey," said Catso, "don't break his bottles."

"Right," said Brendan, "we should dig out the drink before we break his head."

At the mention of being robbed of his liquor Pope began

to struggle, but his thrashing only served to enrage his captor. Red was in a

dirty mood. The day, like most days this Indian summer, had been sticky and dull.

Only the dog-end of a wasted season to endure; nothing to do, and no money to

spend. Some entertainment had been called for, and it had fallen to Red as lion,

and Pope as Christian, to supply it.

"You'll get hurt if you struggle," Red advised the man, "we only want to see

what you've got in your pockets."

"None of your business," Pope retorted, and for a moment he spoke as a man

who had once been used to being obeyed. The outburst made Karney turn from the

gnats and gaze at Pope's emaciated face. Nameless degeneracies had drained it of

dignity or vigor, but something remained there, glimmering beneath the dirt. What

had the man been, Karney wondered? A banker perhaps? A judge, now lost to the

law forever?

Catso had now stepped into the fray to search Pope's clothes, while Red held

his prisoner against the tunnel wall by the throat. Pope fought off Catso's

unwelcome attentions as best he could, his arms flailing like windmills, his eyes

getting progressively wilder. Don't fight, Karney willed him, it'll be worse for you

mouth. There was more color where that came from, Karney knew. He d seen

pictures aplenty of spilled people-bright, gleaming coils of guts; yellow fat and

purple lungs-all that brilliance was locked up in the gray sack of Pope's body. Why

such a thought should occur to him Karney wasn't certain. It distressed him, and he

tried to turn his attention back to the gnats, but Pope demanded his attention,

loosing a cry of anguish as Catso ripped open one of his several waistcoats to get

to the lower layers.

"Bastards!" Pope screeched, not seeming to care that his insults would

inevitably earn him further blows. "Take your shifting hands off me or I'll have

you dead. All of you I" Red's fist brought an end to the threats, and blood came

running after blood. Pope spat it back at his tormentor. "Don't tempt me,"

Pope said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I warn you...”

"You smell like a dead dog," Brendan said. "Is that what you are: a dead dog?"

Pope didn't grant him a reply. His eyes were on Catso, who was systematically

emptying the coat and waistcoat pockets and tossing a pathetic collection of

keepsakes into the dust on the tunnel floor.

"Karney," Red snapped, "look through the stuff, will you? See if there's

anything worth having."

Karney stared at the plastic trinkets and the soiled ribbons, at the tattered sheets

of paper (was the man a poet?) and the wine-bottle corks. "It's all trash," he said.

"Look anyway," Red instructed. "Could be money wrapped in that stuff."

Karney made no move to comply. "Look, damn you.

There s nothing here, he announced after a cursory examination. But Catso

hadn't finished his search. The deeper he dug the more layers of filthy clothing

presented themselves to his eager hands. Pope had more pockets than a master

magician.

Karney glanced up from the forlorn heap of belongings and found, to his

discomfort, that Pope's eyes were on him. The old man, exhausted and beaten, had

given up his protests. He looked pitiful. Karney opened his hands to signify that he

had taken nothing from the heap. Pope, by way of reply, offered a tiny nod.

"Got it!" Catso yelled triumphantly. "Got the fucker!" and pulled a bottle of

vodka from one of the pockets. Pope was either too feeble to notice that his alcohol

supply had been snatched or too tired to care. Whichever way, he made no sound

of complaint as the liquor was stolen from him.

"Any more?" Brendan wanted to know. He'd begun to giggle, a high-pitched

laugh that signaled his escalating excitement. "Maybe the dog's got more where

that came from," he said, letting Pope's hands fall and pushing Catso aside. The

latter made no objection to the treatment. He had his bottle and was satisfied. He

smashed off the neck to avoid contamination and began to drink, squatting in the

dirt. Red relinquished his grip on Pope now that Brendan had taken charge. He

was clearly bored with the game. Brendan, on the other hand, was just beginning

to get a taste for it.

Red walked over to Karney and turned over the pile of Pope's belongings with

the toe of his boot.

obscenities. On past evidence nothing would stop Brendan until his fury was spent.

Anyone foolish enough to interrupt him would find themselves victims in their

turn.

Red had sauntered across to the far side of the tunnel, lit a cigarette, and was

watching the punishment meted out with casual interest. Karney glanced around at

Catso. He had descended from squatting to sitting in the dirt, the bottle of vodka

between his outstretched legs. He was grinning to himself, deaf to the drool of

pleas falling from Pope's broken mouth.

Karney felt sick to his stomach. More to divert his attention from the beating

than out of genuine interest, he returned to the junk filched from Pope's pockets

and turned it over, picking up one of the photographs to examine. It was of a child,

though it was impossible to make any guess as to family resemblance. Pope's face

was now barely recognizable; one eye had already begun to close as the bruise

around it swelled. Karney tossed the photograph back with the rest of the

mementoes. As he did so he caught sight of a length of knotted cord which he had

previously passed over. He glanced back up at Pope. The puffed eye was closed,

the other seemed sightless. Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, Karney pulled

the string from where it lay, coiled like a snake in its nest, among the trash. Knots

fascinated him and always had. Though he had never possessed skill with

academic puzzles (mathematics was a mystery to him; the intricacies of language

the same) he had always had a taste for more tangible riddles. Given a knot, a

jigsaw or a railway timetable, he was happily lost to himself for hours. The interest

the surfaces of the knots, instinctively seeking some latitude, but they had been so

brilliantly contrived that no needle, however fine, could have been pushed between

the intersected strands. The challenge they presented was too appealing to ignore.

Again he glanced up at the old man. Brendan had apparently tired of his labors. As

Karney looked on he threw the old man against the tunnel wall and let the body

sink to the ground. Once there, he let it lie. An unmistakable sewer stench rose

from it.

"That was good," Brendan pronounced like a man who had stepped from an

invigorating shower. The exercise had raised a sheen of sweat on his ruddy

features; he was smiling from ear to ear. "Give me some of that vodka, Catso."

"All gone," Catso slurred, upending the bottle. "Wasn't more than a throatful in

it."

"You're a lying shit," Brendan told him, still grinning.

"What if I am?" Catso replied, and tossed the empty bottle away. It smashed.

"Help me up," he requested of Brendan. The latter, his great good humor intact,

helped Catso to his feet. Red had already started to walk out of the tunnel; the

others followed.

"Hey Karney," Catso said over his shoulder, "you coming?"

"Sure."

"You want to kiss the dog better?" Brendan suggested. Catso was almost sick

with laughter at the remark. Karney made no answer. He stood up, his eyes glued

to the inert figure slumped on the tunnel floor, watching for a flicker of

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THEINHUMANCONDITIONTalesofTerrorBooksofBlood,VolumeIVCLIVEBARKERACKNOWLEDGMENTSMythanksto:DougBennett,whogotmeintoPentonville-andoutagain-inthesamedayandlaterfurnishedmewithhisinsightsonprisonsandtheprisonservice;toJimBurr,forhismind'seyetourofWhiteDeer,Texas,andfortheNewYorkadventures;toRosStanwell...

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