Cabal by Clive Barker Page A

travelled on together, having taken directions from the owner of the diner, who claimed he had a better than vague idea of Midian’s whereabouts. The instructions were good. Their route took them through Shere Neck, which was bigger than Lori had expected, and on down an unmarked road that in theory led to Midian.
    ‘Why d’you wanna go there?’ the diner owner had wanted to know. ‘Nobody goes there anymore. It’s empty.’
    ‘I’m writing an article on the gold rush,’ Sheryl had replied, an enthusiastic liar.
‘She’s
sightseeing.’
    ‘Some sight,’ came the response.
    The remark had been made ironically, but it was truer than its speaker had known. It was late afternoon, the light golden on the gravel road, when the town came into view, and until they were in the streets themselves they were certain this could not be the right place, because what ghost town ever looked so welcoming? Once out of the sun, however, that impression changed. There was something forlornly romantic about the deserted houses, but finally the sight was dispiriting and not a little eerie. Seeing the place, Lori’s first thought was:
    ‘Why would Boone come here?’
    Her second:
    ‘He didn’t come of his own volition. He was chased. It was an accident that he was here at all.’
    They parked the car in the middle of the main street, which was, give or take an alleyway, the only street.
    ‘No need to lock it,’ Sheryl said. ‘Ain’t anybody coming to steal it.’
    Now that they were here, Lori was gladder than ever of Sheryl’s company. Her verve and good humour were an affront to this sombre place; they kept whatever haunted it at bay.
    Ghosts could be laid with laughter; misery was made of sterner stuff. For the first time since Decker’s telephone call she felt something approximating bereavement. It was so easy to imagine Boone here, alone and confused, knowing his pursuers were closing on him. It was easier still to find the place where they’d shot him down. The holes the stray bullets had made were ringed with chalk marks; smears and splashes of blood had soaked into the planks of the porch. She stood off from the spot for several minutes, unable to approach it yet equally unable to retreat. Sheryl had tactfully taken herself off exploring: there was nobody to break the hypnotic hold the sight of his death-bed had upon her.
    She would miss him forever. Yet there were no tears. Perhaps she’d sobbed them out back in the diner washroom. What she felt instead, fuelling her loss, was the mystery of how a man she’d known and loved – or loved and thought she’d known – could have died here for crimes she’d never have suspected him of Perhaps it was the anger she felt towards him that prevented tears, knowing that despite his professions of love he’d hidden so much from her, and was now beyond the reach of her demands for explanation. Could he not at least have left a sign? She found herself staring at the blood stains wondering if eyes more acute than hers might have found some meaning in them. If prophecies could be read from the dregs in a coffee cup surely the last mark Boone had made on the world carried some significance. But she was no interpreter. The signs were just of many unsolved mysteries, chief amongst them the feeling she voiced aloud as she stared at the stairs:
    ‘I still love you Boone.’
    Now
there
was a puzzle, that despite her anger and her bewilderment she’d have traded the life that was left in her just to have him walk out through that door now and embrace her.
    But there was no reply to her declaration, however oblique. No wraith breath against her cheek; no sigh against her inner ear. If Boone was still here in some phantom form he was mute, and breathless; not released by death, but its prisoner.
    Somebody spoke her name. She looked up.
    ‘– don’t you think?’ Sheryl was saying.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Time we went,’ Sheryl repeated. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we