# Cabal

Clive Barker

A fabulous journey through the mind of the master of dark imaginative fiction, Clive Barker.


The nightmare had begun….


Boone knew that there was no place on this earth for him now; no happiness here, not even with Lori. He would let Hell claim him, let Death take him there.


But Death itself seemed to shrink from Boone. No wonder, if he had indeed been the monster who had shattered, violated and shredded so many others’ lives.


And Decker had shown him the proof – the hellish photographs where the last victims were forever stilled, splayed in the last obscene moment of their torture.


Boone’s only refuge now was Midian – that awful, legendary place in which gathered the half-dead, the Nightbreed…

CLIVE BARKER

### CABAL: The Nightbreed


## DEDICATION

TO ANNIE

‘We are all imaginary animals …’

DOMINGO D’YBARRONDO

A Bestiary of the Soul

## CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

PART ONE: LOCO

I The Truth

II Academy

III The Rhapsodist

IV Necropolis

V A Different Ape

VI Feet of Clay

PART TWO: DEATH’S A BITCH

VII Rough Roads

VIII Where He Fell

IX Touched

X Sun and Shade

PART THREE: DARK AGES

XI The Stalking Ground

XII Above and Below

XIII The Prophetic Child

XIV Tabernacle

PART FOUR: SAINTS AND SINNERS

XV The Toll

XVI Now or Never

XVII Delirium

XVIII The Wrath of the Righteous

PART FIVE: THE GOOD NIGHT

XIX A Friendless Face

XX Driven

XXI That Desire

XXII Triumph of the Mask

XXIII The Harrowing

XXIV Cabal

XXV Abide with Me

About the Author

Praise

Other Works

Weaveworld

Copyright

About the Publisher

## PART ONE LOCO

‘I was born alive. Isn’t that punishment enough?’

Mary Hendrickson, at her trial for patricide

## I The Truth

Of all the rash and midnight promises made in the name of love none, Boone now knew, was more certain to be broken than: ‘I’ll never leave you’.

What time didn’t steal from under your nose, circumstance did. It was useless to hope otherwise; useless to dream that the world somehow meant you good. Everything of value, everything you clung to for your sanity would rot or be snatched in the long run, and the abyss would gape beneath you, as it gaped for Boone now, and suddenly, without so much as a breath of explanation, you were gone. Gone to hell or worse, professions of love and all.

His outlook hadn’t always been so pessimistic. There’d been a time – not all that long ago – when he’d felt the burden of his mental anguish lifting. There’d been fewer psychotic episodes, fewer days when he felt like slitting his wrists rather than enduring the hours till his next medication. There’d seemed to be a chance for happiness.

It was that prospect that had won the declaration of love from him; that: ‘I’ll never leave you,’ whispered in Lori’s ear as they lay in the narrow bed he’d never dared hope would hold two. The words had not come in the throes of high passion. Their love life, like so much else between them, was fraught with problems. But where other women had given up on him, unforgiving of his failure, she’d persevered: told him there was plenty of time to get it right, all the time in the world.

I’m with you for as long as you want me to be, her patience had seemed to say.

Nobody had ever offered such a commitment; and he wanted to offer one in return. Those words: ‘I’ll never leave you’. Were it.

The memory of them, and of her skin almost luminous in the murk of his room, and of the sound of her breathing when she finally fell asleep beside him – all of it still had the power to catch his heart, and squeeze it till it hurt.

He longed to be free of both the memory and the words, now that circumstance had taken any hope of their fulfilment out of his hands. But they wouldn’t be forgotten. They lingered on to torment him with his frailty. His meagre comfort was that she – knowing what she must now know about him, – would be working to erase her memory; and that with time she’d succeed. He only hoped she’d understand his ignorance of himself when he’d voiced that promise. He’d never have risked this pain if he’d doubted health was finally within his grasp.

Dream on!

Decker had brought an abrupt end to those delusions, the day he’d locked the office door, drawn the blinds on the Alberta spring sunshine, and said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper:

‘Boone. I think we’re in terrible trouble, you and I.’

He was trembling, Boone saw, a fact not easily concealed in a body so big. Decker had the physique of a man who sweated out the day’s angst in a gym. Even his tailored suits, always charcoal, couldn’t tame his bulk. It had made Boone edgy at the start of their work together; he’d felt intimidated by the doctor’s physical and mental authority. Now it was the fallibility of that strength he feared. Decker was a Rock; he was Reason; he was Calm. This anxiety ran counter to all he knew about the man.

‘What’s wrong?’ Boone asked.

‘Sit, will you? Sit and I’ll tell you.’

Boone did as he was told. In this office, Decker was lord. The doctor leaned back in the leather chair and inhaled through his nose, his mouth sealed in a downward curve.

‘Tell me …’ Boone said.

‘Where to start.’

‘Anywhere.’

‘I thought you were getting better,’ Decker said. ‘I really did. We both did.’

‘I still am,’ Boone said.

Decker made a small shake of his head. He was a man of considerable intellect, but little of it showed on his tightly packed features, except perhaps in his eyes, which at the moment were not watching the patient, but the table between them.

‘You’ve started to talk in your sessions,’ Decker said, ‘about crimes you think you’ve committed. Do you remember any of that?’

‘You know I don’t.’ The trances Decker put him in were too profound: ‘I only remember when you play the tape back.’

‘I won’t be playing any of these,’ Decker said. ‘I wiped them.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … I’m afraid, Boone. For you.’ He paused. ‘Maybe for both of us.’

The crack in the Rock was opening and there was nothing Decker could do to conceal it.

‘What are these crimes?’ Boone asked, his words tentative.

‘Murders. You talk about them obsessively. At first I thought they were dream crimes. You always had a violent streak in you.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I’m afraid you may have actually committed them.’

There was a long silence, while Boone studied Decker, more in puzzlement than anger. The blinds had not been pulled all the way down. A slice of sunlight fell across him, and on to the table between them. On the glass surface was a bottle of still water, two tumblers, and a large envelope. Decker leaned forward and picked it up.

‘What I’m doing now is probably a crime in itself,’ he told Boone. ‘Patient confidentiality is one thing; protecting a killer is another. But part of me is still hoping to God it isn’t true. I want to believe I’ve succeeded. We’ve succeeded. Together. I want to believe you’re well.’

‘I am well.’

In lieu of reply Decker tore open the envelope.

‘I’d like you to look at these for me,’ he said, sliding his hand inside and bringing a sheaf of photographs out to meet the light.

‘I warn you, they’re not pleasant.’

He laid them on his reflection, turned for Boone’s perusal. His warning had been well advised. The picture on the top of the pile was like a physical assault. Faced with it a fear rose in him he’d not felt since being in Decker’s care: that the image might possess him. He’d built walls against that superstition, brick by brick, but they shook now, and threatened to fall.

‘It’s just a picture.’

‘That’s right,’ Decker replied. ‘It’s just a picture. What do you see?’

‘A dead man.’

‘A murdered man.’

‘Yes. A murdered man.’

Not simply murdered: butchered. The life slashed from him in a fury of slices and stabs, his blood flung on the blade that had taken out his neck, taken off his face, on to the wall behind him. He wore only his shorts, so the wounds on his body could be easily counted, despite the blood. Boone did just that now, to keep the horror from overcoming him. Even here, in this room where the doctor had chiselled another self from the block of his patient’s condition, Boone had never choked on terror as he choked now. He tasted his breakfast in the back of his throat, or the meal the night before, rising from his bowels against nature. Shit in his mouth, like the dirt of this deed.

Count the wounds, he told himself; pretend they’re beads on an abacus. Three, four, five in the abdomen and chest: one in particular ragged, more like a tear than a wound, gaping so wide the man’s innards poked out. On the shoulder, two more. And then the face, unmade with cuts. So many their numbers could not be calculated, even by the most detached of observers. They left the victim beyond recognition: eyes dug out, lips slit off, nose in ribbons.

‘Enough?’ Decker said, as if the question needed asking.

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a lot more to see.’

He uncovered the second, laying the first beside the pile. This one was of a woman, sprawled on a sofa, her upper body and her lower twisted in a fashion life would have forbidden. Though she was presumably not a relation of the first victim the butcher had created a vile resemblance. Here was the same liplessness, the same eyelessness. Born from different parents, they were siblings in death, destroyed by the same hand.

And am I their father? Boone found himself thinking.

‘No,’ was his gut’s response. ‘I didn’t do this.’

But two things prevented him from voicing his denial. First, he knew that Decker would not be endangering his patient’s equilibrium this way unless he had good reason for it. Second, denial was valueless when both of them knew how easily Boone’s mind had deceived itself in the past. If he was responsible for these atrocities there was no certainty he’d know it.

Instead he kept his silence, not daring to look up at Decker for fear he’d see the Rock shattered.

‘Another?’ Decker said.

‘If we must.’

‘We must.’

He uncovered a third photograph, and a fourth, laying the pictures out on the table like cards at a Tarot reading, except that every one was Death. In the kitchen, lying at the open door of the refrigerator. In the bedroom, beside the lamp and the alarm. At the top of the stairs; at the window. The victims were of every age and colour; men, women and children. Whatever fiend was responsible he cared to make no distinction. He simply erased life wherever he found it. Not quickly; not efficiently. The rooms in which these people had died bore plain testament to how the killer, in his humour, had toyed with them. Furniture had been overturned as they stumbled to avoid the coup de grace, their blood prints left on walls and paintwork. One had lost his fingers to the blade, snatching at it perhaps; most had lost their eyes. But none had escaped, however brave their resistance. They’d all fallen at last, tangled in their underwear, or seeking refuge behind a curtain. Fallen sobbing; fallen retching.

There were eleven photographs in all. Every one was different – rooms large and small, victims naked and dressed. But each also the same: all pictures of a madness performed, taken with the actor already departed.

God almighty, was he that man?

Not having an answer for himself, he asked the question of the Rock, speaking without looking up from the shining cards.

‘Did I do this?’ he said.

He heard Decker sigh, but there was no answer forthcoming, so he chanced a glance at his accuser. As the photographs had been laid out before him he’d felt the man’s scrutiny like a crawling ache in his scalp. But now he once more found that gaze averted.

‘Please tell me,’ he said. ‘Did I do this?’

Decker wiped the moist purses of skin beneath his grey eyes. He was not trembling any longer.

‘I hope not,’ he said.

The response seemed ludicrously mild. This was not some minor infringement of the law they were debating. It was death times eleven; and how many more might there be; out of sight, out of mind?

‘Tell me what I talked about,’ he said. ‘Tell me the words –’

It was ramblings mostly.’

‘So what makes you think I’m responsible? You must have reasons.’

‘It took time,’ Decker said, ‘for me to piece the whole thing together.’ He looked down at the mortuary on the table, aligning a photograph that was a little askew with his middle finger.

‘I have to make a quarterly report on our progress. You know that. So I play all the tapes of our previous sessions sequentially, to get some sense of how we’re doing …’ He spoke slowly; wearily. ‘… and I noticed the same phrases coming up in your responses. Buried most of the time, in other material, but there. It was as if you were confessing to something; but something so abhorrent to you even in a trance state you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it. Instead it was coming out in this … code.’

Boone knew codes. He’d heard them everywhere during the bad times. Messages from the imagined enemy in the noise between stations on the radio; or in the murmur of traffic before dawn. That he might have learned the art himself came as no surprise.

‘I made a few casual enquiries,’ Decker continued, ‘amongst police officers I’ve treated. Nothing specific. And they told me about the killings. I’d heard some of the details, of course, from the press. Seems they’ve been going on for two and a half years. Several here in Calgary; the rest within an hour’s drive. The work of one man.’

‘Me.’

‘I don’t know,’ Decker said, finally looking up at Boone. ‘If I was certain, I’d have reported it all –’

‘But you’re not.’

‘I don’t want to believe this anymore than you do. It doesn’t cover me in glory if this turns out to be true.’ There was anger in him, not well concealed. ‘That’s why I waited. Hoping you’d be with me when the next one happened.’

‘You mean some of these people died while you knew?’

‘Yes,’ Decker said flatly.

‘Jesus!’

The thought propelled Boone from the chair, his leg catching the table. The murder scenes flew.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Decker demanded.

‘People died, and you waited?’

‘I took that risk for you, Boone. You’ll respect that.’

Boone turned from the man. There was a chill of sweat on his spine.

‘Sit down,’ said Decker. ‘Please sit down and tell me what these photographs mean to you.’

Involuntarily Boone had put his hand over the lower half of his face. He knew from Decker’s instruction what that particular piece of body language signified. His mind was using his body to muffle some disclosure; or silence it completely.

‘Boone. I need answers.’

‘They mean nothing,’ Boone said, not turning.

‘At all?’

‘At all.’

‘Look at them again.’

‘No,’ Boone insisted. ‘I can’t.’

He heard the doctor inhale, and half expected a demand that he face the horrors afresh. But instead Decker’s tone was placatory.

‘It’s all right, Aaron,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I’ll put them away.’

Boone pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. His sockets were hot, and wet.

‘They’re gone, Aaron,’ Decker said.

‘No, they’re not.’

They were with him still, perfectly remembered. Eleven rooms and eleven bodies, fixed in his mind’s eye, beyond exorcism. The wall Decker had taken five years to build had been brought down in as many minutes, and by its architect. Boone was at the mercy of his madness again. He heard it whine in his head, coming from eleven slit windpipes from eleven punctured bellies. Breath and bowel gas, singing the old mad songs.

Why had his defences tumbled so easily, after so much labour? His eyes knew the answer, spilling tears to admit what his tongue couldn’t. He was guilty. Why else? Hands he was even now wiping dry on his trousers had tortured and slaughtered. If he pretended otherwise he’d only tempt them to further crime. Better that he confessed, though he remembered nothing, than offer them another unguarded moment.

He turned and faced Decker. The photographs had been gathered up and laid face down on the table.

‘You remember something?’ the doctor said, reading the change on Boone’s face.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘What?’

‘I did it,’ Boone said simply. ‘I did it all.’

### II Academy. 1

Decker was the most benign prosecutor any accused man could ask for. The hours he spent with Boone after that first day were filled with carefully plied questions as – murder by murder – they examined together the evidence for Boone’s secret life. Despite the patient’s insistence that the crimes were his, Decker counselled caution. Admissions of culpability were not hard evidence. They had to be certain that confession wasn’t simply Boone’s self-destructive tendencies at work, admitting to the crime out of hunger for the punishment.

Boone was in no position to argue. Decker knew him better than he knew himself. Nor had he forgotten Decker’s observation that if the worst was proved true, the doctor’s reputation as a healer would be thrown to the dogs: they could neither of them afford to be wrong. The only way to be sure was to run through the details of the killings – dates, names and locations – in the hope that Boone would be prompted into remembering. Or else that they’d discover a killing that had occurred when he was indisputably in the company of others.

The only part of the process Boone balked at was reexamining the photographs. He resisted Decker’s gentle pressure for forty-eight hours, only conceding when the gentility faltered and Decker rounded on him, accusing him of cowardice and deceit. Was all this just a game, Decker demanded; an exercise in self-mortification that would end with them both none the wiser? If so, Boone could get the hell out of his office now and bleed on somebody else’s time.

Boone agreed to study the photographs.

There was nothing in them that jogged his memory. Much of the detail of the rooms had been washed out by the flash of the camera; what remained was commonplace. The only sight that might have won a response from him – the faces of the victims – had been erased by the killer, hacked beyond recognition; the most expert of morticians would not be able to piece those shattered façades together again. So it was all down to the petty details of where Boone had been on this night or that; with whom; doing what. He had never kept a diary so verifying the facts was difficult, but most of the time – barring the hours he spent with Lori or Decker, none of which seemed to coincide with murder nights – he was alone, and without alibi. By the end of the fourth day the case against him began to look very persuasive.

‘Enough,’ he told Decker. ‘We’ve done enough.’

‘I’d like to go over it all one more time.’

‘What’s the use?’ Boone said. ‘I want to get it all finished with.’

In the past days – and nights – many of the old symptoms, the signs of the sickness he thought he’d been so close to throwing off forever, had returned. He could sleep for no more than minutes at a time before appalling visions threw him into befuddled wakefulness; he couldn’t eat properly; he was trembling from his gut outwards, every minute of the day. He wanted an end to this; wanted to spill the story and be punished.

‘Give me a little more time,’ Decker said. ‘If we go to the police now they’ll take you out of my hands. They probably won’t even allow me access to you. You’ll be alone.’

‘I already am,’ Boone replied. Since he’d first seen the photographs he’d cut himself off from every contact, even with Lori, fearing his capacity to do harm.

‘I’m a monster,’ he said. ‘We both of us know that. We’ve got all the evidence we need.’

‘It’s not just a question of evidence.’

‘What then?’

Decker leaned against the window frame, his bulk a burden to him of late.

‘I don’t understand you, Boone,’ he said.

Boone’s gaze moved off from man to sky. There was a wind from the south-east today; scraps of cloud hurried before it. A good life, Boone thought, to be up there, lighter than air. Here everything was heavy; flesh and guilt cracking your spine.

‘I’ve spent four years trying to understand your illness, hoping I could cure it. And I thought I was succeeding. Thought there was a chance it would all come clear …’

He fell silent, in the pit of his failure. Boone was not so immersed in his own agonies he couldn’t see how profoundly the man suffered. But he could do nothing to mitigate that hurt. He just watched the clouds pass, up there in the light, and knew there were only dark times ahead.

‘When the police take you …’ Decker murmured, ‘it won’t just be you who’s alone, Boone. I’ll be alone too. You’ll be somebody else’s patient: some criminal psychologist. I won’t have access to you any longer. That’s why I’m asking … Give me a little more time. Let me understand as much as I can before it’s over between us.’

He’s talking like a lover, Boone vaguely thought; like what’s between us is his life.

‘I know you’re in pain,’ Decker went on. ‘So I’ve got medication for you. Pills, to keep the worst of it at bay. Just till we’ve finished –’

‘I don’t trust myself,’ Boone said. ‘I could hurt somebody.’

‘You won’t,’ Decker replied, with welcome certainty. ‘The drugs’ll keep you subdued through the night. The rest of the time you’ll be with me. You’ll be safe with me.’

‘How much longer do you want?’

‘A few days, at the most. That’s not so much to ask, is it? I need to know why we failed.’

The thought of re-treading that bloodied ground was abhorrent, but there was a debt here to be paid. With Decker’s help he’d had a glimpse of new possibilities; he owed the doctor the chance to snatch something from the ruins of that vision.

‘Make it quick,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Decker said. ‘This means a lot to me.’

‘And I’ll need the pills.’

### 2

The pills he had. Decker made sure of that. Pills so strong he wasn’t sure he could have named himself correctly once he’d taken them. Pills that made sleep easy, and waking a visit to a half-life he was happy to escape from again. Pills that, within twenty-four hours, he was addicted to.

Decker’s word was good. When he asked for more they were supplied, and under their soporific influence they went back to the business of the evidence, as the doctor went over, and over again, the details of Boone’s crimes, in the hope of comprehending them. But nothing came clear. All Boone’s increasingly passive mind could recover from these sessions were slurred images of doors he’d slipped through and stairs he’d climbed in the performance of murder. He was less and less aware of Decker, still fighting to salvage something of worth from his patient’s closed mind. All Boone knew now was sleep, and guilt, and the hope, increasingly cherished, of an end to both.

Only Lori, or rather memories of her, pricked the drugs’ regime. He could hear her voice sometimes, in his inner ear, clear as a bell, repeating words she’d spoken to him in some casual conversation, which he was dredging up from the past. There was nothing of consequence in these phrases; they were perhaps associated with a look he’d treasured, or a touch. Now he could remember neither look nor touch – the drugs had removed so much of his capacity to imagine. All he was left with were these dislocated lines, distressing him not simply because they were spoken as if by somebody at his shoulder, but because they had no context that he could recall. And worse than either, their sound reminded him of the woman he’d loved and would not see again, unless across a courtroom. A woman to whom he had made a promise he’d broken within weeks of his making it. In his wretchedness, his thoughts barely cogent, that broken promise was as monstrous as the crimes in the photographs. It fitted him for Hell.

Or death. Better death. He was not entirely sure how long had passed since he’d done the deal with Decker exchanging this stupor for a few more days of investigation, but he was certain he had kept his side of the bargain. He was talked out. There was nothing left to say, nor hear. All that remained was to take himself to the law, and confess his crimes, or to do what the state no longer had the power to do, and kill the monster.

He didn’t dare alert Decker to this plan; he knew the doctor would do all in his power to prevent his patient’s suicide. So he went on playing the quiescent subject one day more. Then, promising Decker he’d be at the office the following morning, he returned home and prepared to kill himself.

There was another letter from Lori awaiting him, the fourth since he’d absented himself, demanding to know what was wrong. He read it as best his befuddled thoughts would allow, and attempted a reply, but couldn’t make sense of the words he was trying to write. Instead, pocketing the appeal she’d sent to him, he went out into the dusk to look for death.

### 3

The truck he threw himself in front of was unkind. It knocked the breath from him but not the life. Bruised, and bleeding from scrapes and cuts, he was scooped up and taken to hospital. Later, he’d come to understand how all of this was in the scheme of things, and that he’d been denied his death beneath the truck wheels for a purpose. But sitting in the hospital, waiting in a white room till people worse off than he had been attended to, all he could do was curse his bad fortune. Other lives he could take with terrible ease; his own resisted him. Even in this he was divided against himself.

But that room – though he didn’t know it when he was ushered in – held a promise its plain walls belied. In it he’d hear a name that would with time make a new man of him. At its call he’d go like the monster he was, by night, and meet with the miraculous.

That name was Midian.

It and he had much in common, not least that they shared the power to make promises. But while his avowals of eternal love had proved hollow in a matter of weeks, Midian made promises – midnight, like his own, deepest midnight – that even death could not break.