Barker, Clive – Imajica 01 – The Fifth Dominion. Part 5

“He keeps asking for Gentle,” Clem explained. “And I’ve tried to telephone him but he doesn’t answer. Do you know if he’s gone away?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I haven’t spoken to him since Christmas Night.”

“Could you try and find him for me? Or rather for Taylor? If you could maybe go round to the studio and rouse him? I’d go myself but I daren’t leave the house. I’m afraid as soon as I step outside . . .” He faltered, tears in his breath. “I want to be here if anything happens.”

“Of course you do. And of course I’ll go. Right now.” “Thanks. I don’t think there’s much time, Judy.” Before she left she tried calling Gentle, but as Clem had already warned her, nobody answered. She gave up after two attempts, put on her jacket, and headed out to the car. As she reached into her pocket for the keys she realized she’d brought the stone and the bead with her, and some superstition made her hesitate, wondering if she should deposit them back inside. But time was of the essence. As long as they remained in her pocket, who was going to see them? And even if they did, what did it matter? With death in the air who was going to care about a few purloined bits and pieces?

She had discovered the night she’d left Gentle at the studio that he could be seen through the window if she stood on the opposite side of the street, so when he failed to answer the door, that was where she went to spy him. The room seemed to be empty, but the bare bulb was burning. She waited a minute or so and he stepped into view, shirtless and bedraggled. She had powerful lungs and used them now, hollering his name. He didn’t seem to hear at first. But she tried again, and this time he looked in her direction, crossing to the window.

“Let me in!” she yelled. “It’s an emergency.”

The same reluctance she read in his retreat from the window was on his face when he opened the door. If he had looked bad at the party, he looked considerably worse now.

“What’s the problem?” he said.

“Taylor’s very sick, and Clem says he keeps asking for you.”

Gentle looked bemused, as though he was having difficulty remembering who Taylor and Clem were.

“You have to get cleaned up and dressed,” she said. “Furie, are you listening to me?”

She’d always called him Furie when she was irritated with him, and that name seemed to work its magic now. Though she’d expected some objection from him, given his phobia where sickness was concerned, she got none. He looked too drained to argue, his stare somehow unfinished, as though it had a place it wanted to rest but couldn’t find. She followed him up the stairs into the studio.

“I’d better clean up,” he said, leaving her in the midst of the chaos and going into the bathroom.

She heard the shower run. As ever, he’d left the bathroom door wide open. There was no bodily function, to the most fundamental, he’d ever shown the least embarrassment about, an attitude which had shocked her at first but which she’d taken for granted after a time, so that she’d had to relearn the laws of propriety when she’d gone to live with Estabrook.

“Will you find a clean shirt for me?” he called through to her. “And some underwear?”

It seemed to be a day for going through other people’s belongings. By the time she’d found a denim shirt and a pair of overwashed boxer shorts, he was out of the shower, standing in front of the bathroom mirror combing his wet hair back from his brow. His body hadn’t changed since she’d last looked at it naked. He was as lean as ever, his buttocks and belly tight, his chest smooth. His hooded prick drew her eye: the part that truly gave the lie to Gentle’s name. It was no great size in this passive state, but it was pretty even so. If he knew he was being scrutinized he made no sign of it. He peered at himself in the mirror without affection, then shook his head.

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