Cabal by Clive Barker

arm raised. They were out from his shadow in seconds, forsaking the armies in fear of him. His rage at the children and his disgust at the picture were welded into one revulsion now.
    ‘A fucking animal,’ he said, turning to Lori. ‘That’s what he was. A fucking animal.’
    He thrust the tainted photograph back at her.
    ‘Damn good thing they took him out. What you wanna do, go bless the spot?’
    She claimed the photograph from his oily fingers without replying, but he read her expression well enough. Unbowed he continued his tirade.
    ‘Man like that should be put down like a
dog
, lady. Like a fucking dog.’
    She retreated before his vehemence, her hands trembling so much she could barely open the car door.
    ‘Don’t you want no gas?’ he suddenly said.
    ‘Go to hell,’ she replied.
    He looked bewildered.
    ‘What’s your problem?’ he spat back.
    She turned the ignition, muttering a prayer that the car would not play dead. She was in luck. Driving away at speed she glanced in her mirror to see the man shouting after her through the dust she’d kicked up.
    She didn’t know where his anger had come from, but she knew where it would go: to the children. No use to fret about it. The world was full of brutal fathers and tyrannical mothers; and come to that, cruel and uncaring children. It was the way of things. She couldn’t police the species.
    Relief at her escape kept any other response at bay for ten minutes, but then it ran out, and a trembling overtook her, so violent she had to stop at the first sign of civilization and find somewhere to calm herself down. There was a small diner amongst the dozen or so stores, where she ordered coffee and a sugar fix of pie, then retired to the rest room to splash some cold water on her flushed cheeks. Solitude, albeit snatched, was the only cue her tears needed. Staring at her blotchy, agitated features in the cracked mirror she began to sob so insistently, nothing – not even the entrance of another customer – could shame her into stopping.
    The newcomer didn’t do as Lori would have done in such circumstances, and withdraw. Instead, catching Lori’s eye in the mirror, she said:
    ‘What is it? Men or money?’
    Lori wiped the tears away with her fingers.
    ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
    ‘When I cry –’ the girl said, putting a comb through her hennaed hair. ‘– it’s only ever men or money.’
    ‘Oh.’ The girl’s unabashed curiosity helped hold fresh tears at bay. ‘A man,’ Lori said.
    ‘Leave you, did he?’
    ‘Not exactly.’
    ‘Jesus,’ said the girl. ‘Did he come back? That’s even worse.’
    The remark earned a tiny smile from Lori.
    ‘It’s usually the ones you don’t want, right?’ the girl went on. ‘You tell ’em to piss off, they just keep coming back, like dogs –’
    Mention of dogs reminded Lori of the scene at the garage, and she felt tears mustering again.
    ‘Oh shut up, Sheryl,’ the newcomer chided herself, ‘you’re making it worse.’
    ‘No,’ said Lori. ‘No really. I need to talk.’
    Sheryl smiled.
    ‘As badly as I need coffee?’
    Sheryl Margaret Clark was her name, and she could have coaxed gossip from angels. By their second hour of conversation and their fifth coffee, Lori had told her the whole sorry story, from her first meeting with Boone to the moment she and Sheryl had exchanged looks in the mirror. Sheryl herself had a story to tell – more comedy than tragedy – about her lover’s passion for cars and hers for his brother, which had ended in hard words and parting. She was on the road to clear her head.
    ‘I’ve not done this since I was a kid,’ she said, ‘just going where the fancy takes me. I’ve forgotten how good it feels. Maybe we could go on together. To Shere Neck. I’ve always wanted to see the place.’
    ‘Is that right?’
    Sheryl laughed.
    ‘No. But it’s as good a destination as any. All directions being equal to the fancy-free.’

VIII

Where He Fell
    S o they