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Authors: Clive Barker
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the forced heat would sometimes bring strange waking dreams.
Was this such a dream; this insipid fellow in his fine suit? If not, how had he gained access to the basement,
when the door was locked and bolted? He asked no questions of the intruder. Something about the way the man stared at him baffled his tongue. 'Chaplin,' the fellow said, his thin lips barely moving, 'I'd like you to open the furnace.'
In other circumstances he might well have picked up his shovel and clouted the stranger across the head. The furnace was his baby. He knew, as no-one else knew,
its quirks and occasional petulance; he loved, as no-one else loved, the roar it gave when it was content; he did not take kindly to the proprietorial tone the man used.
But he'd lost the will to resist. He picked up a rag and opened the peeling door, offering its hot heart to this man as Lot had offered his daughters to the stranger in Sodom.
Butterfield smiled at the smell of heat from the furnace. From three floors above he heard the woman crying out for help; and then, a few moments later,
a shot. She had failed. He had thought she would.
But her life was forfeit anyway. There was no loss in sending her into the breach, in the slim chance that she might have coaxed the body from its keepers.
It would have saved the inconvenience of a full-scale attack, but no matter. To have Swann's soul was worth any effort. He had defiled the good name of the Prince of Lies. For that he would suffer as no other miscreant magician ever had. Beside Swann's punishment, Faust's would be an inconvenience, and Napoleon's a pleasure-
cruise.
As the echoes of the shot died above, he took the black lacquer box from his jacket pocket. The janitor's eyes were turned heavenward. He too had heard the shot.
'It was nothing,' Butterfield told him. 'Stoke the fire.'
Chaplin obeyed. The heat in the cramped basement rapidly grew. The janitor began to sweat; his visitor did not. He stood mere feet from the open furnace door and gazed into the brightness with impassive features. At last, he seemed satisfied.
'Enough,' he said, and opened the lacquer box.
Chaplin thought he glimpsed movement in the box, as though it were full to the lid with maggots, but before he had a chance to look more closely both the box and contents were pitched into the flames.
'Close the door,' Butterfield said. Chaplin obeyed.
'You may watch over them awhile, if it pleases you.
They need the heat. It makes them mighty.'
He left the janitor to keep his vigil beside the furnace,
and went back up to the hallway. He had left the street door open, and a pusher had come in out of the cold to do business with a client. They bartered in the shadows, until the pusher caught sight of the lawyer.
'Don't mind me,' Butterfield said, and started up the stairs. He found the widow Swann on the first landing.
59 She was not quite dead, but he quickly finished the job D'Amour had started.
'We're in trouble,' said Valentin. 'I hear noises down-
stairs. Is there any other way out of here?'
Harry sat on the floor, leaning against the toppled cabinet, and tried not to think of Dorothea's face as the bullet found her, or of the creature he was now reduced to needing.
'There's a fire escape,' he said, 'it runs down to the back of the building.'
'Show me,' said Valentin, attempting to haul him to his feet.
'Keep your hands off me!'
Valentin withdrew, bruised by the rebuffal. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Maybe I shouldn't hope for your acceptance. But I do.'
Harry said nothing, just got to his feet amongst the litter of reports and photographs. He'd had a dirty life:
spying on adulteries for vengeful spouses; dredging gutters for lost children; keeping company with scum because it rose to the top, and the rest just drowned.
Could Valentin's soul be much grimier?
'The fire escape's down the hall,' he said.
'We can still get Swann out,'
Was this such a dream; this insipid fellow in his fine suit? If not, how had he gained access to the basement,
when the door was locked and bolted? He asked no questions of the intruder. Something about the way the man stared at him baffled his tongue. 'Chaplin,' the fellow said, his thin lips barely moving, 'I'd like you to open the furnace.'
In other circumstances he might well have picked up his shovel and clouted the stranger across the head. The furnace was his baby. He knew, as no-one else knew,
its quirks and occasional petulance; he loved, as no-one else loved, the roar it gave when it was content; he did not take kindly to the proprietorial tone the man used.
But he'd lost the will to resist. He picked up a rag and opened the peeling door, offering its hot heart to this man as Lot had offered his daughters to the stranger in Sodom.
Butterfield smiled at the smell of heat from the furnace. From three floors above he heard the woman crying out for help; and then, a few moments later,
a shot. She had failed. He had thought she would.
But her life was forfeit anyway. There was no loss in sending her into the breach, in the slim chance that she might have coaxed the body from its keepers.
It would have saved the inconvenience of a full-scale attack, but no matter. To have Swann's soul was worth any effort. He had defiled the good name of the Prince of Lies. For that he would suffer as no other miscreant magician ever had. Beside Swann's punishment, Faust's would be an inconvenience, and Napoleon's a pleasure-
cruise.
As the echoes of the shot died above, he took the black lacquer box from his jacket pocket. The janitor's eyes were turned heavenward. He too had heard the shot.
'It was nothing,' Butterfield told him. 'Stoke the fire.'
Chaplin obeyed. The heat in the cramped basement rapidly grew. The janitor began to sweat; his visitor did not. He stood mere feet from the open furnace door and gazed into the brightness with impassive features. At last, he seemed satisfied.
'Enough,' he said, and opened the lacquer box.
Chaplin thought he glimpsed movement in the box, as though it were full to the lid with maggots, but before he had a chance to look more closely both the box and contents were pitched into the flames.
'Close the door,' Butterfield said. Chaplin obeyed.
'You may watch over them awhile, if it pleases you.
They need the heat. It makes them mighty.'
He left the janitor to keep his vigil beside the furnace,
and went back up to the hallway. He had left the street door open, and a pusher had come in out of the cold to do business with a client. They bartered in the shadows, until the pusher caught sight of the lawyer.
'Don't mind me,' Butterfield said, and started up the stairs. He found the widow Swann on the first landing.
59 She was not quite dead, but he quickly finished the job D'Amour had started.
'We're in trouble,' said Valentin. 'I hear noises down-
stairs. Is there any other way out of here?'
Harry sat on the floor, leaning against the toppled cabinet, and tried not to think of Dorothea's face as the bullet found her, or of the creature he was now reduced to needing.
'There's a fire escape,' he said, 'it runs down to the back of the building.'
'Show me,' said Valentin, attempting to haul him to his feet.
'Keep your hands off me!'
Valentin withdrew, bruised by the rebuffal. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Maybe I shouldn't hope for your acceptance. But I do.'
Harry said nothing, just got to his feet amongst the litter of reports and photographs. He'd had a dirty life:
spying on adulteries for vengeful spouses; dredging gutters for lost children; keeping company with scum because it rose to the top, and the rest just drowned.
Could Valentin's soul be much grimier?
'The fire escape's down the hall,' he said.
'We can still get Swann out,'
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