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Coldheart Canyon by Clive Barker. Part seven. Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

“I threw him out. I mean, I was ready to do it anyhow. The dream just confirmed what I’d been feeling.”

“Did he just go?”

“No. He got physical, and we ended up fighting and — ” Luis pulled up his sleeve, exposing a six inch scar, pale against his mocha skin. “It got nasty.”

“He did that?”

“We were fighting. And I fell on a glass-topped coffee-table. I needed sixteen stitches. By the time I got back from the hospital, the motherfucker had gone. He’d taken all my shoes. And they weren’t even his size.”

“So you do believe in dreams?”

“Sure I believe. Why’d you want to know?”

“I’m trying to figure something out.”

“Well, you want my opinion? Dreams can be useful doing that sometimes. Then again, sometimes they’re full of shit. It depends on the dream. You know how I know? My Momma got really sick with pneumonia, and she was in the hospital in New York. And I had this dream, and she was telling me she was fine, there was no need to spend the money and fly out East, because she was going to get better. Next day, she was dead.”

Jerry went back to his apartment and thought about his dream some more, and about what Luis had said. Gradually, it crept up on him why he was being so reluctant about the decision. He was afraid that if he went up to (if he sided with Katya, knowing her capacity for cruelty), it would be the end of him. He’d seen so many movies in which the queen ended up dead in the second act, superfluous to the real heart of the story. Wasn’t that him? Hadn’t he lived his life at the edge of Katya’s grand drama; never important enough to be at the heart of things? If events in were indeed coming to an end — as it seemed they were — then what was the likelihood of his surviving to the final reel? Little or none.

And yet, if this was the inescapable truth of his life, then why fight it? Why lock himself away in his little apartment, watching game-shows and eating frozen dinners for one, when the only drama he’d ever really been a part of was playing out to its conclusion twenty minutes’ drive away? Wasn’t that just throwing more time away: waste on waste?

Damn it, he would go. He’d obey the summons of the dream, and go back to Coldheart Canyon.

This course determined, he set about preparing himself for an audience with the Lady Katya. He chose something elegant to wear (she liked an elegant man, she’d heard him once say); his linen suit, his best Italian shoes, a silk tie he’d bought in Barcelona, to add just a touch of color to the otherwise subdued ensemble. With his clothes chosen, he showered and shaved and then — having worked up a bit of a sweat shaving — showered again.

It was late afternoon by the time he started to get dressed. It would soon be cocktail hour up in Coldheart Canyon. Tonight, at least, Katya would not have to drink alone.

TWO

About the time Jerry Brahms had been waking up from his dream of Katya and the snails — which is to say, just half an hour before dawn — Tammy and Todd were slipping — ‘quietly, quietly,’ she kept saying — into the little hotel where Tammy had been staying. The last few days had provided Tammy with a notable range of unlikely experiences but surely this was up there amongst the weirdest of them — tip-toeing along the corridor of her two-star hotel with one of the most famous celebrities in the world in tow, telling him to hush whenever his heel squeaked on a board.

“The room’s chaos,” she warned him as she let him in. “I’m not a very tidy person … ”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Todd said, his voice so drained by exhaustion it had no color left in it whatsoever. “I just want to piss and sleep.”

He went directly into the bathroom, and without bothering to close the door, unzipped and urinated like a racehorse, just as though the two of them had been married for years and he didn’t give a damn about the niceties. Telling herself she shouldn’t be taking a peek, Tammy did so anyway. Where was the harm? He was bigger than Arnie, by a couple of sizes. He shook himself, wetting the seat (just like Arnie) and went to the sink to wash, splashing water on his face in a half-hearted fashion.

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Categories: Clive Barker
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