The Great and Secret Show by Clive Barker

  Critical acclaim for Clive Barker's bestseller

  The Great and Secret Show

  . . At his best, he is a mapmaker of the mind, charting the farthest reaches of the imagination. His 'Great and Secret Show' is, in fact, the world inside our heads: the place of possibilities, some dark and dangerous, others bright and beautiful, and some of them liberating."

  —Douglas Winter, The Washington Times

  ★

  ". . . A massive and brilliant Platonic dark fantasy that details an eruption of wonders and terrors—as the veil between the world of the senses and the world of the imagination is rent in a small California town."

  —Kirkus

  ★

  "Mixing elements of horror, science fiction and surrealist literature, Barker's work reads like a cross between Stephen King and South American novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He creates a world where our biggest fears appear to be our own dreams."

  —The Boston Herald

  And praise for Clive Barker,

  WEAVEWORLD and

  "Mr. Barker extends one's appreciation of the possible. He is a fine writer."

  — Wall Street Journal

  ★

  "Clive Barker has been an amazing writer from his first appearance, with the great gifts of invention and commitment to his own vision stamped on every page."

  —Peter Straub

  ★

  "From the start it's clear that Barker is in a class by himself."

  —Locus

  ★

  "A powerful and fascinating writer with a brilliant imagination. WEAVEWORLD reveals Clive Barker as an outstanding storyteller." —J.G. Ballard

  bestselling author of

  THE DAMNATION GAME:

  "Barker's the best thing to happen to horror fiction for many moons . . . [he] never fails to deliver the compelling prose and relentless horror his readers expect."

  —Chicago Tribune

  ★

  "His work is as provocative and well crafted as any fiction being written today."

  —Fantasy Review

  ★

  "Clive Barker, the new wunderkind of horror fiction, hits a nerve dead-center and makes the brain squeal."

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  ★

  "Barker's brilliantly literate work has raised horror to a level of excellence it has rarely reached before."

  —Whitley Strieber, author of COMMUNION

  Also by Clive Barker

  THE BOOKS OF BLOOD, VOLUMES I—III

  IN THE FLESH

  THE INHUMAN CONDITION

  THE DAMNATION GAME

  WEAVEWORLD

  CABAL

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  HarperPaperbacks A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  Copyright © 1989 by Clive Barker All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollinsPublishers 10 Hast 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1989 by Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.

  This book was first published in Great Britain in 1989 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. It is reprinted by arrangement with William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.

  First HarperPaperbacks printing: November 1990 Printed in the United States of America

  HarperPaperbacks and colophon are trademarks of HarperCollinsPublishers

  10 987654321

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE The Messenger

  PART TWO The League of Virgins

  PART THREE Free Spirits

  PART FOUR Primal Scenes

  PART FIVE Slaves and Lovers

  PART SIX In Secrets, Most Revealed

  PART SEVEN Souls at Zero

  Memory, prophecy and fantasy—

  the past, the future and

  the dreaming moment between—

  are all one country,

  living one immortal day.

  To know that is Wisdom.

  To use it is the Art.

  PART ONE

  The

  Messenger

  I

  HOMER opened the door. "Come on in, Randolph." Jaffe hated the way he said Randolph, with the faintest trace of contempt in the word, as though he knew every damn crime Jaffe had ever committed, right from the first, the littlest.

  "What are you waiting for?" Homer said, seeing Jaffe linger. "You've got work to do. The sooner it's started, the sooner I can find you more."

  Randolph stepped into the room. It was large, painted the same bilious yellow and battleship gray as every other office and corridor in the Omaha Central Post Office. Not that much of the walls was visible. Piled higher than head-height on every side was mail. Sacks, satchels, boxes and carts of it, spilling out onto the cold concrete floor.

  "Dead letters," Homer said. "Stuff even the good ol' U.S. Post Office can't deliver. Quite a sight, huh?"

  Jaffe was agog, but he made sure not to show it. He made sure to show nothing, especially to wise guys like Homer.

  "This is all yours, Randolph," his superior said. "Your little corner of heaven."

  "What am I supposed to do with it?" Jaffe said.

  "Sort it. Open it, look for any important stuff so we don't end up putting good money in the furnace."

  "There's money in them?"

  "Some of 'em," Homer said with a smirk. "Maybe. But most of it's just junk-mail. Stuff people don't want and just put back in the system. Some of it's had the wrong address put on and it's been flying backwards and forwards till it ends up in Nebraska. Don't ask me why, but whenever they don't know what to do with this shit they send it to Omaha."

  "It's the middle of the country," Jaffe observed. "Gateway to the West. Or East. Depending on which way you're facing."

  "Ain't the dead center," Homer countered. "But we still end up with all the crap. And it's all got to get sorted. By hand. By you."

  "All of it?" Jaffe said. What was in front of him was two weeks', three weeks', four weeks' work.

  "All of it," said Homer, and didn't make any attempt to conceal his satisfaction. "All yours. You'll soon get the hang of it. If the envelope's got some kind of government marking, put it in the burn pile. Don't even bother to open it. Fuck 'em, right? But the rest, open. You never know what we're going to find." He grinned conspiratorially. "And what we find, we share, " he said.

  Jaffe had been working for the U.S. Post Office only nine days, but that was long enough, easily long enough, to know that a lot of mail was intercepted by its hired deliverers. Packets were razored open and their contents filched, checks were cashed, love-letters were laughed over.

  "I'm going to be coming back in here on a regular basis," Homer warned. "So don't you try hiding anything from me. I got a nose for stuff. I know when there's bills in an envelope, and I know when there's a thief on the team. Hear me? I got a sixth sense. So don't you try anything clever, bud, 'cause me and the boys don't take kindly to that. And you want to be one of the team, don't you?" He put a wide, heavy hand on Jaffe's shoulder. "Share and share alike, right?"

  "I hear," Jaffe said.

  "Good," Homer replied. "So—" He opened his arms to the spectacle of piled sacks. "It's all yours." He sniffed, grinned and took his leave.

  One of the team, Jaffe thought as the door clicked closed, was what he'd never be. Not that he was about to tell H
omer that. He'd let the man patronize him; play the willing slave. But in his heart? In his heart, he had other plans, other ambitions. Problem was, he wasn't any closer to realizing those ambitions than he'd been at twenty. Now he was thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight. Not the kind of man women looked at more than once. Not the kind of character folks found exactly charismatic. Losing his hair the way his father had. Bald at forty, most likely. Bald, and wifeless, and not more than beer-change in his pocket because he'd never been able to hold down a job for more than a year, eighteen months at the outside, so he'd never risen higher than private in the ranks.

  He tried not to think about it too hard, because when he did he began to get really itchy to do some harm, and a lot of the time it was harm done to himself. It would be so easy. A gun in the mouth, tickling the back of his throat. Over and done with. No note. No explanation. What would he write anyway? I'm killing myself because I didn't get to be King of the World? Ridiculous.

  But . . . that was what he wanted to be. He'd never known how, he'd never even had a sniff of the way, but that was the ambition that had nagged him from the first. Other men rose from nothing, didn't they? Messiahs, presidents, movie stars. They pulled themselves up out of the mud the way the fishes had when they'd decided to go for a walk. Grown legs, breathed air, become more than what they'd been. If fucking fishes could do it, why couldn't he? But it had to be soon. Before he was forty. Before he was bald. Before he was dead, and gone, and no one to even remember him, except maybe as a nameless asshole who'd spent three weeks in the winter of 1969 in a room full of dead letters, opening orphaned mail looking for dollar bills. Some epitaph.

  He sat down and looked at the task heaped before him.

  "Fuck you," he said. Meaning Homer. Meaning the sheer volume of crap in front of him. But most of all, meaning himself.

  At first, it was drudgery. Pure hell, day after day, going through the sacks.

  The piles didn't seem to diminish. Indeed they were several times fed by a leering Homer, who led a trail of peons in with further satchels to swell the number.

  First Jaffe sorted the interesting envelopes (bulky; rattling; perfumed) from dull; then the private correspondence from official, and the scrawl from the Palmer method. Those decisions made, he began opening the envelopes, in the first week with his fingers, till his fingers became calloused, thereafter with a short-bladed knife he bought especially for the purpose, digging out the contents like a pearl-fisher in search of a pearl, most of the time finding nothing, sometimes, as Homer had promised, finding money or a check, which he dutifully declared to his boss.

  "You're good at this," Homer said after the second week. "You're really good. Maybe I should put you on this full time."

  Randolph wanted to say fuck you, but he'd said that too many times to bosses who'd fired him the minute after, and he couldn't afford to lose this job: not with the rent to pay and heating his one-room apartment costing a damn fortune while the snow continued to fall. Besides, something was happening to him while he passed the solitary hours in the Dead Letter Room, something it took him to the end of the third week to begin to enjoy, and the end of the fifth to comprehend.

  He was sitting at the crossroads of America.

  Homer had been right. Omaha, Nebraska, wasn't the geographical center of the USA, but as far as the Post Office was concerned, it may as well have been.

  The lines of communication crossed, and recrossed, and finally dropped their orphans here, because nobody in any other state wanted them. These letters had been sent from coast to coast looking for someone to open them, and had found no takers. Finally they'd ended with him: with Randolph Ernest Jaffe, a balding nobody with ambitions never spoken and rage not expressed, whose little knife slit them, and little eyes scanned them, and who—sitting at his crossroads—began to see the private face of the nation.

  There were love-letters, hate-letters, ransom notes, pleadings, sheets on which men had drawn round their hard-ons, valentines of pubic hair, blackmail by wives, journalists, hustlers, lawyers and senators, junk-mail and suicide notes, lost novels, chain letters, resumes, undelivered gifts, rejected gifts, letters sent out into the wilderness like bottles from an island, in the hope of finding help, poems, threats and recipes. So much. But these many were the least of it. Though sometimes the love-letters got him sweaty, and the ransom notes made him wonder if, having gone unanswered, their senders had murdered their hostages, the stories of love and death they told touched him only fleetingly. Far more persuasive, far more moving, was another story, which could not be articulated so easily.

  Sitting at the crossroads he began to understand that America had a secret life; one which he'd never even glimpsed before. Love and death he knew about. Love and death were the great clichés; the twin obsessions of songs and soap operas. But there was another life, which every fortieth letter, or fiftieth, or hundredth, hinted at, and every thousandth stated with a lunatic plainness. When they said it plain, it was not the whole truth, but it was a beginning, and each of the writers had their own mad way of stating something close to unstateable.

  What it came down to was this: the world was not as it seemed. Not remotely as it seemed. Forces conspired (governmental, religious, medical) to conceal and silence those who had more than a passing grasp of that fact, but they couldn't gag or incarcerate every one of them. There were men and women who slipped the nets, however widely flung; who found back-roads to travel where their pursuers got lost, and safe houses along the way where they'd be fed and watered by like visionaries, ready to misdirect the dogs when they came sniffing. These people didn't trust Ma Bell, so they didn't use telephones. They didn't dare assemble in groups of more than two for fear of attracting attention to themselves. But they wrote. Sometimes it was as if they had to, as if the secrets they kept sealed up were too hot, and burned their way out. Sometimes it was because they knew the hunters were on their heels and they'd have no other chance to describe the world to itself before they were caught, drugged and locked up. Sometimes there was even a subversive glee in the scrawlings, sent out with deliberately indistinct addresses in the hope that the letter would blow the mind of some innocent who'd received it by chance. Some of the missives were stream-of-consciousness rantings, others precise, even clinical, descriptions of how to turn the world inside out by sex-magic or mushroom-eating. Some used the nonsense imagery of National Enquirer stories to veil another message. They spoke of UFO sightings and zombie cults; news from Venusian evangelists and psychics who tuned in to the dead on the TV. But after a few weeks of studying these letters (and study it was; he was like a man locked in the ultimate library) Jaffe began to see beyond the nonsenses to the hidden story. He broke the code; or enough of it to be tantalized. Instead of being irritated each day when Homer opened the door and had another half dozen satchels of letters brought in, he welcomed the addition. The more letters, the more clues; the more clues the more hope he had of a solution to the mystery. It was, he became more certain as the weeks turned into months and the winter mellowed, not several mysteries but one. The writers whose letters were about the Veil, and how to draw it aside, were finding their own way forward towards revelation; each had his own particular method and metaphor; but somewhere in the cacophony a single hymn was striving to be sung.

  It was not about love. At least not as the sentimentalists knew it. Nor about death, as a literalist would have understood the term. It was—in no particular order—something to do with fishes, and the sea (sometimes the Sea of Seas); and three ways to swim there; and dreams (a lot about dreams); and an island which Plato had called Atlantis, but had known all along was some other place. It was about the end of the World, which was in turn about its beginning. And it was about Art.

  Or rather, the Art.

  That, of all the codes, was the one he beat his head hardest against, and broke only his brow. The Art was talked about in many ways. As The Final Great Work. As The Forbidden Fruit. As da Vinci's Despair or The Finger in the Pie or
The Butt-Digger's Glee. There were many ways to describe it, but only one Art. And (here was a mystery) no Artist.

  "So, are you happy here?" Homer said to him one May day.

  Jaffe looked up from his work. There were letters strewn all around him. His skin, which had never been too healthy, was as pale and etched upon as the pages in his hand.

  "Sure," he said to Homer, scarcely bothering to focus on the man. "Have you got some more for me?"

  Homer didn't answer at first. Then he said: "What are you hiding, Jaffe?"

  "Hiding? I'm not hiding anything."

  "You're stashing stuff away you should be sharing with the rest of us."

  "No I'm not," Jaffe said. He'd been meticulous in obeying Homer's first edict, that anything found among the dead letters be shared. The money, the skin magazines, the cheap jewelry he'd come across once in a while; it all went to Homer, to be divided up. "You get everything," he said. "I swear."

  Homer looked at him with plain disbelief. "You spend every fucking hour of the day down here," he said. "You don't talk with the other guys. You don't drink with 'em. Don't you like the smell of us, Randolph? Is that it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Or are you just a thief?"

  "I'm no thief," Jaffe said. "You can look for yourself." He stood up, raising his hands, a letter in each. "Search me."

  "I don't want to fucking touch you," came Homer's response. "What do you think I am, a fucking fag?" He kept staring at Jaffe. After a pause he said: "I'm going to have somebody else come down here and take over. You've done five months. It's long enough. I'm going to move you."

  "I don't want—"

  "What?"

  "I mean . . . what I mean to say is, I'm quite happy down here. Really. It's work I like doing."

  "Yeah," said Homer, clearly still suspicious. "Well from Monday you're out."

  "Why?"

  "Because I say so! If you don't like it find yourself another job."