Barker, Clive - Books of Blood Vol. 5.pdf - ENG - Chlorella

Clive Barker's

Books of Blood

Volume 5

Contents

The Forbidden

The Madonna

Babel's Children

In The Flesh

The Forbidden

Like a flawless tragedy, the elegance of which structure is lost upon those

suffering in it, the perfect geometry of the Spector Street Estate was only

visible from the air. Walking in its drear canyons, passing through its grimy

corridors from one grey concrete rectangle to the next, there was little to

seduce the eye or stimulate the imagination. What few saplings had been

planted in the quadrangles had long since been mutilated or uprooted; the

grass, though tall, resolutely refused a healthy green.

No doubt the estate and its two companion developments had once been an

architect's dream. No doubt the city-planners had wept with pleasure at a

design which housed three and thirty-six persons per hectare, and still

boasted space for a children's playground. Doubtless fortunes and reputations

had been built upon Spector Street, and at its opening fine words had been

spoken of its being a yardstick by which all future developments would be

measured. But the planners - tears wept, words spoken - had left the estate to

its own devices; the architects occupied restored Georgian houses at the other

end of the city, and probably never set foot here.

They would not have been shamed by the deterioration of the estate even if

they had. Their brain-child (they would doubtless argue) was as brilliant as

ever: its geometries as precise, its ratios as calculated; it was people who

had spoiled Spector Street. Nor would they have been wrong in such an

accusation. Helen had seldom seen an inner city environment so comprehensively

vandalized. Lamps bad been shattered and back-yard fences overthrown; cars

whose wheels and engines had been removed and chassis then burned, blocked

garage facilities. In one courtyard three or four ground-floor maisonettes had

been entirely gutted by fire, their windows and doors boarded up with planks

and corrugated iron.

More startling still was the graffiti. That was what she had come here to

see, encouraged by Archie's talk of the place, and she was not disappointed.

It was difficult to believe, staring at the multiple layers of designs, names,

obscenities, and dogmas that were scrawled and sprayed on every available

brick, that Spector Street was barely three and a half years old. The walls,

so recently virgin, were now so profoundly defaced that the Council Cleaning

Department could never hope to return them to their former condition. A layer

of whitewash to cancel this visual cacophony would only offer the scribes a

fresh and yet more tempting surface on which to make their mark.

Helen was in seventh heaven. Every corner she turned offered some fresh

material for her thesis: 'Graffiti: the semiotics of urban despair'. It was a

subject which married her two favourite disciplines - sociology and aesthetics

- and as she wandered around the estate she began to wonder if there wasn't a

book, in addition to her thesis, in the subject. She walked from courtyard to

courtyard, copying down a large number of the more interesting scrawlings, and

noting their location. Then she went back to the car to collect her camera and

tripod and returned to the most fertile of the areas, to make a thorough

visual record of the walls.

It was a chilly business. She was not an expert photographer, and the late

October sky was in full flight, shifting the light on the bricks from one

moment to the next. As she adjusted and re-adjusted the exposure to compensate

for the light changes, her fingers steadily became clumsier, her temper

correspondingly thinner. But she struggled on, the idle curiosity of passers-

by notwithstanding. There were so many designs to document. She reminded

herself that her present discomfort would be amply repaid when she showed the

slides to Trevor, whose doubt of the project's validity had been perfectly

apparent from the beginning.

'The writing on the wall?' he'd said, half smiling in that irritating

fashion of his, 'It's been done a hundred times.'

This was true, of course; and yet not. There certainly were learned works

on graffiti, chock full of sociological jargon: cultural disenfranchisement;

urban alienation. But she flattered herself that she might find something

amongst this litter of scrawlings that previous analysts had not: some

unifying convention perhaps, that she could use as the lynch-pin of her

thesis. Only a vigorous cataloguing and cross-referencing of the phrases and

images before her would reveal such a correspondence; hence the importance of

this photographic study. So many hands had worked here; so many minds left

their mark, however casually: if she could find some pattern, some predominant

motive, or motif, the thesis would be guaranteed some serious attention, and

so, in turn, would she.

'What are you doing?' a voice from behind her asked.

She turned from her calculations to see a young woman with a pushchair on

the pavement behind her. She looked weary, Helen thought, and pinched by the

cold. The child in the pushchair was mewling, his grimy fingers clutching an

orange lollipop and the wrapping from a chocolate bar. The bulk of the

chocolate, and the remains of previous jujubes, was displayed down the front

of his coat.

Helen offered a thin smile to the woman; she looked in need of it.

'I'm photographing the walls,' she said in answer to the initial enquiry,

though surely this was perfectly apparent.

The woman - she could barely be twenty - Helen judged, said:

'You mean the filth?'

'The writing and the pictures,' Helen said. Then: 'Yes. The filth.'

'You from the Council?'

'No, the University.'

'It's bloody disgusting,' the woman said. 'The way they do that. It's not

just kids, either.'

'No?'

'Grown men. Grown men, too. They don't give a damn. Do it in broad

daylight. You see 'em... broad daylight.' She glanced down at the child, who

was sharpening his lollipop on the ground. 'Kerry!' she snapped, but the boy

took no notice. 'Are they going to wipe it off?' she asked Helen.

'I don't know,' Helen said, and reiterated: 'I'm from the University.'

'Oh,' the woman replied, as if this was new information, 'so you're nothing

to do with the Council?'

'No.'

'Some of it's obscene, isn't it?; really dirty. Makes me embarrassed to see

some of the things they draw.'

Helen nodded, casting an eye at the boy in the pushchair. Kerry had decided

to put his sweet in his ear for safe-keeping.

'Don't do that!' his mother told him, and leaned over to slap the child's

hand. The blow, which was negligible, began the child bawling. Helen took the

opportunity to return to her camera. But the woman still desired to talk.

'It's not just on the outside, neither,' she commented.

'I beg your pardon?' Helen said.

'They break into the flats when they go empty. The Council tried to board

them up, but it does no good. They break in anyway. Use them as toilets, and

write more filth on the walls. They light fires too. Then nobody can move back

in.'

The description piqued Helen's curiosity. Would the graffiti on the inside

walls be substantially different from the public displays? It was certainly

worth an investigation.

'Are there any places you know of around here like that?'

'Empty flats, you mean?'

'With graffiti.'

'Just by us, there's one or two,' the woman volunteered. 'I'm in Butts'

Court.'

'Maybe you could show me?' Helen asked.

The woman shrugged.

'By the way, my name's Helen Buchanan.'

'Anne-Marie,' the mother replied.

'I'd be very grateful if you could point me to one of those empty flats.'

Anne-Marie was baffled by Helen's enthusiasm, and made no attempt to

disguise it, but she shrugged again and said: 'There's nothing much to see.

Only more of the same stuff.'

Helen gathered up her equipment and they walked side by side through the

intersecting corridors between one square and the next. Though the estate was

low-rise, each court only five storeys high, the effect of each quadrangle was

horribly claustrophobic. The walkways and staircases were a thief's dream,

rife with blind 'corners and ill-lit tunnels. The rubbish-dumping facilities -

chutes from the upper floors down which bags of refuse could be pitched - had

long since been sealed up, thanks to their efficiency as fire-traps. Now

plastic bags of refuse were piled high in the corridors, many torn open by

roaming dogs, their contents strewn across the ground. The smell, even in the

cold weather, was unpleasant. In high summer it must have been overpowering.

'I'm over the other side,' Anne-Marie said, pointing across the quadrangle.

'The one with the yellow door.' She then pointed along the opposite side of

the court. 'Five or six maisonettes from the far end,' she said. 'There's two

of them been emptied out. Few weeks now. One of the family's moved into Ruskin

Court; the other did a bunk in the middle of the night.'

With that, she turned her back on Helen and wheeled Kerry, who had taken to

trailing spittle from the side of his pushchair, around the side of the

square.

'Thank you,' Helen called after her. Anne-Marie glanced over her shoulder

briefly, but did not reply. Appetite whetted, Helen made her way along the row

of ground floor maisonettes, many of which, though inhabited, showed little

sign of being so. Their curtains were closely drawn; there were no milk-

bottles on the doorsteps, nor children's toys left where they had been played

with. Nothing, in fact, of life here. There was more graffiti however,

sprayed, shockingly, on the doors of occupied houses. She granted the

scrawlings only a casual perusal, in part because she feared one of the doors

opening as she examined a choice obscenity sprayed upon it, but more because

she was eager to see what revelations the empty flats ahead might offer.

The malign scent of urine, both fresh and stale, welcomed her at the

threshold of number 14, and beneath that the smell of burnt paint and plastic.

She hesitated for fully ten seconds, wondering if stepping into the maisonette

was a wise move. The territory of the estate behind her was indisputably

foreign, sealed off m its own misery, but the rooms in front of her were more

intimidating still: a dark maze which her eyes could barely penetrate. But

when her courage faltered she thought of Trevor, and how badly she wanted to

silence his condescension. So thinking, she advanced into the place,

deliberately kicking a piece of charred timber aside as she did so, in the

hope that she would alert any tenant into showing himself.

There was no sound of occupancy however. Gaining confidence, she began to

explore the front room of the maisonette which had been - to judge by the

remains of a disemboweled sofa in one corner and the sodden carpet underfoot -

a living-room. The pale-green walls were, as Anne-Marie had promised,

extensively defaced, both by minor scribblers - content to work in pen, or

even more crudely in sofa charcoal - and by those with aspirations to public

works, who had sprayed the walls in half a dozen colours.

Some of the comments were of interest, though many she bad already seen on

the walls outside. Familiar names and couplings repeated themselves. Though

she bad never set eyes on these individuals she knew how badly Fabian J.

(A.OK!) wanted to deflower Michelle; and that Michelle, in her turn, had the

hots for somebody called Mr Sheen. Here, as elsewhere, a man called White Rat

boasted of his endowment, and the return of the Syllabub Brothers was promised

in red paint. One or two of the pictures accompanying, or at least adjacent

to, these phrases were of particular interest. An almost emblematic simplicity

informed them. Beside the word Christos was a stick man with his hair

radiating from his head like spines, and other heads impaled on each spine.

Close by was an image of intercourse so brutally reduced that at first Helen

took it to illustrate a knife plunging into a sightless eye. But fascinating

as the images were, the room was too gloomy for her film and she had neglected

to bring a flash. If she wanted a reliable record of these discoveries she

would have to come again, and for now be content with a simple exploration of

the premises.

The maisonette wasn't that large, but the windows had been boarded up

throughout, and as she moved further from the front door the dubious light

petered out altogether. The smell of urine, which had been strong at the door,

intensified too, until by the time she reached the back of the living-room and

stepped along a short corridor into another room beyond, it was cloying as

incense. This room, being furthest from the front door, was also the darkest,

and she bad to wait a few moments in the cluttered gloom to allow her eyes to

become useful. This, she guessed, had been the bedroom. What little furniture

the residents had left behind them had been smashed to smithereens. Only the

mattress had been left relatively untouched, dumped in the corner of the room

amongst a wretched litter of blankets, newspapers, and pieces of crockery.

Outside, the sun found its way between the clouds, and two or three shafts

of sunlight slipped between the boards nailed across the bedroom window and

pierced the room like annunciations, scoring the opposite wall with bright

lines. Here, the graffitists had been busy once more: the usual clamour of

love-letters and threats. She scanned the wall quickly, and as she did so her

eye was led by the beams of light across the room to the wall which contained

the door she had stepped through.

Here, the artists had also been at work, but had produced an image the like

of which she had not seen anywhere else. Using the door, which was centrally

placed in the wall, as a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head on

to the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen,

rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones

jutting through skin the colour of buttermilk; the teeth - sharpened to

irregular points - all converging on the door. The sitter's eyes were, owing

to the room's low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this

physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that

he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp

across the ceiling.

Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of

the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of

those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: a facsimile, perhaps, of something

from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of

door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living-room and bedroom

offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the

gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare's belly. The whole effect

brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same

unashamed intention to scare. And it worked; she stood in the bedroom almost

stupified by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly.

Tomorrow, she determined, she would come here again, this time with high-speed

film and a flash to illuminate the masterwork.

As she prepared to leave the sun went in, and the bands of light faded. She

glanced over her shoulder at the boarded windows, and saw for the first time

that one four-word slogan had been sprayed on the wall beneath them.

'Sweets to the sweet' it read. She was familiar with the quote, but not

with its source. Was it a profession of love? If so, it was an odd location

for such an avowal. Despite the mattress in the corner, and the relative

privacy of this room, she could not imagine the intended reader of such words

ever stepping in here to receive her bouquet. No adolescent lovers, however

heated, would lie down here to play at mothers and fathers; not under the gaze

of the terror on the wall. She crossed to examine the writing. The paint

looked to be the same shade of pink as had been used to colour the gums of the

screaming man; perhaps the same hand?

Behind her, a noise. She turned so quickly she almost tripped over the

blanket-strewn mattress.

'Who - ?'

At the other end of the gullet, in the living-room, was a scab-kneed boy of

six or seven. He stared at Helen, eyes glittering in the half-light, as if

waiting for a cue.

'Yes?' she said.

'Anne-Marie says do you want a cup of tea?' he declared without pause or

intonation.

Her conversation with the woman seemed hours past. She was grateful for the

invitation however. The damp in the maisonette had chilled her.

'Yes...' she said to the boy. 'Yes please.'

The child didn't move, but simply stared on at her.

'Are you going to lead the way?' she asked him.

'If you want,' he replied, unable to raise a trace of enthusiasm.

'I'd like that.'

'You taking photographs?' he asked.

'Yes. Yes, I am. But not in here.' 'Why not?'

'It's too dark,' she told him.

'Don't it work in the dark?' he wanted to know.

'No.'

The boy nodded at this, as if the information somehow fitted well into his

scheme of things, and about turned without another word, clearly expecting

Helen to follow.

If she had been taciturn in the street, Anne-Marie was anything but in the

privacy of her own kitchen. Gone was the guarded curiosity, to be replaced by

a stream of lively chatter and a constant scurrying between half a dozen minor

domestic tasks, like a juggler keeping several plates spinning simultaneously.

Helen watched this balancing act with some admiration; her own domestic skills

were negligible. At last, the meandering conversation turned back to the

Barker, Clive - Books of Blood Vol. 5.pdf

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