The Fall of the House of Cabal Page 4

  Horst shrugged off the slurs upon his intellect with brotherly ease. ‘That’s another quest in itself, surely? By the time you’ve found these paragons, we might as well have tried to do it all ourselves in any case.’

  ‘I know where to find them already,’ said Cabal. ‘That is not the hurdle. Persuading them is the rub. Well, for one, at least. The other will certainly prove more enthusiastic.’

  At this point, Cabal’s face did a strange thing, a sudden flexion and tautening that was brief, but that filled his brother with wonder.

  ‘Did you just smile? I mean, really smile? Not one of those things you call a smile that frightens donkeys, but a real, actual smile?’

  To which Johannes Cabal said nothing, but the ghost of that fleeting expression glowed upon his countenance for some time after.

  * * *

  It was an unassuming cottage overlooking an unassuming little market town, but it was homely and comfortable and a pleasant enough place in which to spend one’s retirement. It had once been visited by a small bit of elemental evil that had disported itself around the fireplace and almost resulted in a death and a damnation, but that was years ago, and one has to let these things go ultimately, doesn’t one? The reminders crop up now and then, and dreams sometimes colour into nightmares at what almost was and what awful thing might have been. The day comes, and the half-remembered blows away, dust on the breeze. The calamity did not come to pass. The agent of evil turned out to be wrought with internal conflict. The last hope was fruitful.

  Still, for all this, Frank Barrow was only momentarily surprised when that agent reappeared on his doorstep, bearing flowers, a bottle of decent wine, and asking curtly if politely if his daughter, Leonie, happened to be in residence. This moment of surprise passed easily from Barrow to Cabal, as he punched the necromancer a beautiful right straight to the jaw that felled him like an ox introduced to a poleaxe.

  Barrow stood over Cabal, fists up and furious. ‘Get up, you bastard! Get up so I can knock you down again!’

  Cabal blinked to dispel stars, but was only partially successful. He tried his jaw with his hand to make sure it was still there. Remarkably, it was; retired he might be, but ex–detective inspector Francis Barrow was still not a man to invite into a physical contretemps lightly.

  ‘I shall stay down here in that case,’ said Cabal. ‘I have no desire to be knocked down again.’

  Here, Barrow made the shade of the Marquess of Queensberry very sad by kicking his opponent in the ribs. Cabal, however, had not lived as long as he had without allowing for contingencies. Mr Barrow being rather put out to see him had not even been a very unlikely one. Cabal reached inside his jacket and, when his hand reappeared, it bore a businesslike semi-automatic pistol of Italian pedigree. This he aimed at Barrow’s head in a manner that implied a second kick would be unwise.

  Barrow backed away a step. ‘Why have you come back, Cabal? You’re not bloody welcome here.’

  ‘So I gather.’ He took up the bottle—unbroken due to a fall into a rose bed—and the bouquet—dishevelled, but still presentable—in his off hand and showed them to Barrow. ‘I brought peace offerings. I understood that was the done thing.’

  ‘Cabal?’

  Frank Barrow looked back. In the corridor behind him stood his daughter, Leonie, her unruly blond hair temporarily corralled in a ponytail. ‘I’ll deal with this, love,’ he said. He might have been talking about a dog’s leaving upon the garden path.

  ‘Fräulein Barrow,’ said Cabal, ‘always a pleasure. I would rise, but your father has promised to knock me down again.’

  ‘You’re pointing a gun at him, Cabal.’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Last time I saw you, you were pointing a gun at me then, too, you pallid bastard,’ said Barrow.

  ‘So I was. You’re right; it’s unfriendly. I shall suggest a compromise. I shall put the gun away, and you do not kick or punch me or otherwise do me harm. Is that acceptable?’

  It was barely that. Barrow stood pale and almost quivering with rage over Cabal’s prone form. It was left to Leonie to say, ‘Yes, it is. Dad, step away from him, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘What?’ Barrow swung his head to face her, disbelief in his eyes. ‘You can’t want to take this evil bugger’s side?’

  ‘I’m not taking anyone’s side,’ she said. ‘But look at the pair of you. I don’t want to have to clear up any blood. You’re all set to beat him into a pulp, and believe you me, I know Cabal would shoot you without hesitation. I don’t want to have to deal with any corpses today, thank you. We have enough trouble getting the dustbin men to take away extra rubbish at the best of times.’

  Barrow knew his daughter of old, and so backed down first. He made a show of unclenching his fists and nodded at Cabal. ‘Put yon gun away. I’ll not hit you. Though God knows you deserve it.’

  More quickly than he might once have done, Cabal accepted Barrow’s acquiescence. He smartly aimed the gun away, lowered its hammer, re-engaged the safety catch, and returned it to its holster. ‘May I get up now?’

  Barrow snorted, which was the closest to an affirmative he felt like giving at that moment. Cabal carefully and without sudden moves climbed to his feet. He addressed Leonie. ‘I brought wine. And flowers. You may wish to place them in a vase. With water. They are already dead in any real sense, but the water will preserve the appearance of life for a little longer.’

  Leonie accepted them despite a warning glance from her father. ‘Why, Mr Cabal. How romantic. Please, come in.’

  ‘Leonie!’ Barrow stepped into Cabal’s path as he tried to follow her into the house. ‘This is my house and that … man is not coming in. Have you forgotten what he did? What he is?’

  Cabal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You speak of the carnival?’

  ‘Of course! What else?’

  Cabal leaned slightly to look at Leonie past Barrow. ‘You haven’t told him?’

  Barrow’s brow fogged with confusion. ‘Haven’t told me what?’ he demanded of his daughter.

  She smiled at him, a little weakly.

  * * *

  It took longer than it needed to, to tell Frank Barrow of the fact that Leonie, his daughter and only child, had actually met Cabal twice in the intervening years, and had kept it from him because, ‘I thought it would upset you.’ In this, she was absolutely correct.

  ‘Twice?’ Barrow was not sure what he ought to be most horrified by; that she had met Cabal again on two occasions that might reasonably be described as fraught, that she had kept this intelligence from him, her own father, or that she had come away from these encounters with a growingly positive view of a man whose business included body snatching and consorting with supernatural minions of diabolical evil. He inwardly decided it was all pretty ghastly and said as much at regular intervals, hence the reason the history of the aeroship the Princess Hortense and the curious business of the Christmas at Maple Durham took so long to recount.

  Throughout these recollections, Cabal remained quiet, less due to consideration of Barrow’s pained feelings as a desire not to get punched again. A painful jaw and some bruised ribs spoke volubly that Barrow’s feeling towards him were not the finest. Even where his recollection of events differed from Leonie Barrow’s or where he disagreed with her interpretation (the latter was the more common), he maintained a silence birthed of self-preservation.

  When she had at last finished, there was a heavy silence that Cabal punctured by saying, ‘Would anyone like a glass of wine?’

  ‘The kitchen’s through there,’ said Leonie with a nod. ‘Corkscrew’s in the cutlery drawer by the cooker. Wine glasses are in the cabinet over the worktop.’ Cabal rose uncertainly and went to fetch them. As he reached the door, she added, ‘Take your time.’

  Barely was the door shut behind him when he heard Barrow’s voice lift. ‘How could you? He’s a bloody monster!’

  ‘He was a monster,’ he heard her reply, and he was inexplicably heartened by this.
He set off to find the corkscrew and glasses, and he took his time doing so.

  He found them immediately, and dawdled for a few minutes, watching the day dim though the kitchen window as the sun touched the horizon. When the voices from the parlour had diminished from full rancour to an aggrieved resentment communicated in mutters and sharp rejoinders, he judged the time right to return.

  ‘I’ll be mother,’ said Leonie, taking the corkscrew from Cabal and using its blade to break the wax around the bottle’s cork. Barrow occupied the time by glaring at Cabal, Cabal by finding almost everything in the room of interest with the exception of Barrow’s face if the line of his wandering gaze was to be believed.

  Leonie passed a filled glass to Cabal and slid one to her father across the tabletop when he seemed not to notice it proffered to him.

  ‘My daughter,’ said Barrow in clear syllables that brooked no interruption, ‘tells me that you’re not such a bastard any more.’

  Cabal shrugged modestly. ‘Well, I—’

  ‘My daughter,’ said Barrow, ‘tells me you don’t work for … a certain entity any more.’

  ‘That was more of a temporary arrange—’

  ‘My daughter,’ said Barrow, ‘tells me that you have done good.’

  Here, Cabal paused. Yes, he had done good. By accident, as a by-product, by serendipity. But yes, he had done good. He just didn’t see why people kept wanting to rub his nose in it.

  Unsure how to answer, he said nothing, and inadvertently seemed modest by it. All unaware, he sat cloaked in unwitting humility.

  Barrow took up his glass. ‘All right, then. Let’s hear it.’ Cabal looked inquisitively at him. ‘What are you doing here, man?’

  * * *

  Explaining the concept to Horst had taken long enough. Horst, for his part, was a moderately intelligent man who was also a vampire; a man who had encountered werewolves, döppelgangers, creatures from beyond the veil of our reality and a fell beast that was half-man, half-badger. He was alive, or at least undead to the possibilities of the eldritch. Frank Barrow was a former police officer who lived in a cottage, and to whom the only thing he might consider truly unusual in his life had consisted largely of Johannes Cabal and the travelling entourage he nominally managed at the time.

  He still cottoned on to what Cabal was asking faster than Horst had, and Leonie was a few seconds ahead of him.

  ‘The secret of life itself?’ said Barrow. ‘That’s what you’re after?’

  Cabal raised his hands modestly. It was a modest enough goal, after all.

  ‘But you have no idea what form this secret might take?’ added Leonie.

  ‘None. The text from which I am working is long on symbolism, short on detail. It may be a principle. It may be a literal fountain. I tend towards the former view.’

  ‘And what will you do with this secret, assuming there even is a secret, and assuming you get your grubby little paws on it?’ Frank Barrow was still not convinced that Cabal was anything other than the soul-stealing huckster he had once been and made few pains to hide it. ‘Sell it? Use it for nefarious ends?’ Barrow had once heard a chief constable speak of nefarious ends and been impressed by the phrase. Whatever these ends were, they sounded like they were an end unto themselves, self-contained little parcels of villainy that malefactors collected as a scout collects badges.

  Cabal started to reply, but was overcome by nonplussedness for a moment. When he recovered his wherewithal, he asked, ‘What sort of “nefarious ends”, exactly?’

  Barrow grimaced at such sophistry. Inwardly, he imagined one nefarious end being The Commission of Arson Using Only Two Matches. ‘You know full well what I’m talking about.’

  ‘In the first instance, Herr Barrow, you may have been led astray by my activities when first we met. I am not usually engaged in business, not even the running of a carnival. Money matters little to me. I only seek to save someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That,’ said Cabal, a little steel showing in his voice, ‘is my concern. You need not worry that I intend to raise some dreadful dictator or similar from the grave. Politics concerns me fractionally less than business, and business concerns me not at all.’

  ‘Not good enough. You can’t expect my daughter to go along with your schemes without so much as a hint as to the reason for it all.’

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ said Leonie. ‘You’re a man of honour, Dad. I’ve always respected that. Well, this is my honour, and Cabal … Mr Cabal saved my life. I owe him a debt.’

  Cabal shook his head. ‘No. I make no claim upon any such debt, not least because you saved my life, too.’

  ‘I did?’ Leonie looked astonished.

  ‘You could have reported me to the authorities at any point. I doubt my life would have seen out an hour subsequent such a denunciation. That is by the bye. Even if a debt did stand, I cannot impose upon you to help me in this undertaking from any sense of obligation. There will undoubtedly be danger. I hope and trust the goal will be more than worth any such peril, but the peril will be real, nonetheless. You must make your decision based upon whatever merits you see in this enterprise.’

  ‘And if I think it’s a fool’s errand?’

  ‘Then you would be a fool to agree.’

  ‘Very well.’ Leonie sat back, cosseting her wine glass. ‘Convince me. Why should I help?’

  ‘Simply put, because lives depend upon it. Two lives.’

  Leonie glanced at her father and back at Cabal. ‘That’s not some sort of ham-fisted threat, is it?’

  Cabal was silent for a moment while he digested the implication. ‘No, no. As I think I said to your father once, I really do not care for threats very much. Warnings, perhaps, but threats, no. The lives to which I allude are already extinguished. Unfairly, and before their time.’

  ‘Life’s unfair,’ said Barrow. He regarded his hands clasped together on his lap, anything to avoid looking at the picture of his wife on the mantel. ‘Death twice as much. You can’t go gallivanting around undermining eternal verities just because they happen to nark you off a bit.’

  ‘Two questions, Mr Barrow. Firstly, why ever not? All science is based on the precept that we know too little. Ignorance is not bliss. It is only ignorance. Its bed partner may be the inertia of the conservative. Often it is only fear. If death may be cured, why should we regard it as anything different from curing the common cold, or cancer? Secondly, if an eternal verity turns out to be neither eternal nor true, why defend it? It is said that death and taxes are the only inevitabilities in life. It is, I understand, meant in a jocular manner, but nevertheless, if there was some miraculous economic formula that meant you never had to pay a penny in taxes ever again, yet there were no dreadful repercussions, no collapse in public services, would you not rush to embrace it?’

  ‘That’s chalk and cheese—’

  ‘Is it? What, then, is your objection?’

  ‘This thing you’re looking for, it’s against nature.’

  ‘If the mechanism exists, it is part of nature. By definition, it cannot be anything but natural.’

  Barrow’s face flushed. ‘It’s against God’s law.’

  It was possibly not the best argument to employ against a necromancer. Still, by a remarkable feat of self-control and a mental image of Horst slowly mouthing the word Diplomacy, Cabal managed not to burst out in peals of bitter laughter.

  ‘Mr Barrow, I appreciate that God’s opinion probably matters a great deal to you, but—truly—He doesn’t care. If the object of this quest is against God’s notoriously morphic and ill-defined law, it wouldn’t exist. The only promise we have from the mouth of that deity worth spit is that of free will and self-determination. Everything else is open to negotiation.’

  ‘You’re a blasphemous bugger, Cabal.’

  ‘I’m rational, unlike your God. Really, when has He ever stuck to His word?’

  Barrow smiled grimly. Finally, Sunday school was going to prove its worth. ‘The Flood. God pro
mised never to do it again.’ He crossed his arms. ‘And He never has.’

  Cabal was underwhelmed by this argument. ‘Really. And when somebody drowns in a natural flash flood, say, what’s that? A white lie? No, Mr Barrow, the only time your God takes a blind bit of notice of you is when you die. Either you go off to the petty sadist in the other place—’

  ‘You mean the devil? Satan?’

  ‘The devil, yes. Satan, I’m no longer so sure. I’m beginning to think it’s a job description rather than a personality.’ He waved an impatient hand, as if wafting away a cloud of dumbstruck theologians. ‘But that is neither here nor there. Or, as I was saying, you end up in the personal collection of the entity you call “God”. He … it chamfers off any awkward corners that might indicate bothersome traces of individuality, and stacks the homogenised souls into the eternal equivalent of pigeonholes.’

  Barrow flinched at Cabal’s description of Heaven. ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I know enough to know God does us no favours. The heavenly afterlife is very much what atheists have long suspected: nothingness. Where they are wrong is that it isn’t the simple cessation of all sensation and awareness, but the engineered nothingness of an entity who hates mess and fuss. Consciousness … poo. Will … won’t need that. Memories of life and love and everything … tiresome. God is not your friend. God has never been your friend.’

  The room grew quiet.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Leonie, ‘perhaps working to undermine my father’s faith wasn’t the best way to talk me into coming along.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Cabal thought about it, and salted that information away for some future date when it might come in useful. ‘Oh.’ He nodded at Frank Barrow. ‘Well, he started it, believing in nonsense.’

  ‘Not an improvement. Look, Cabal, you’re setting about this all wrong. I’m not very interested in having you gain the secrets of life, whether it be bringing back the dead in a way that doesn’t involve brain-eating, or potentially immortality. For one thing, just think what it’ll do to the population figures.’