The Thief of Always

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1983

Copyright © Clive Barker 1992

All illustrations copyright © Clive Barker 1992

Clive Barker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780006473114

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007397532

Version: 2018-11-05

PRAISE FOR

The Thief of Always

‘A great fable’ INTERZONE

‘Disturbing … Intriguing … A compelling novel … refreshingly comic’

TIMES EDUCATIONAL SUPPLEMENT

‘Gorgeous prose brimming with invention, the wonderstuff we’ve come to expect from the maestro of dark fantasy … A dazzling treasure of the fabulous and the wicked from a master storyteller who seems intent upon single-handedly spinning the myths and fairytales, both dark and wondrous, of our time’

NORTHERN ECHO

‘Clever, concise and traditional … Barker has a powerful talent for arousing apprehensions’

THE TIMES

‘Something for everyone here and an impressive excursion into childhood fears and delights’

MIDWEEK

‘Swiftly and vigorously told, it should be much enjoyed’

SUNDAY EXPRESS

‘Delightful, but with enough of Barker’s demonic flair to beguile fans of his more paint-the-room-red ventures’

GLASGOW HERALD

‘Will obviously attract at least as many adult as younger readers, and shouldn’t disappoint many of any age’

CITY LIMITS

Locus Best of the Year recommended reads:

‘In terms of artistic bravery and accomplishment, I was delighted to see what Clive Barker and Stephen King accomplished. Barker’s The Thief of Always is a lean fable for readers of all ages dealing with the taking of magic and the giving it back. It’s pretty wonderful’

EDWARD BRYANT

Dedication

To M. S. S.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

The Thief of Always

I Harvey, Half-Devoured

II The Hidden Way

III Pleasure and the Worm

IV A Death Between Seasons

V The Prisoners

VI Seen and Unseen

VII A Present From the Past

VIII Hungry Waters

IX What Do You Dream?

X Falling From Grace

XI Turnabout

XII What the Flood Gave Up; (And What It Took)

XIII The Fourth Part of Darkness

XIV Time Was

XV New Nightmares

XVI Back To the Happy Land

XVII Cook, Cat and Coffin

XVIII The Bitter Truth

XIX Dust To Dust

XX The Thieves Meet

XXI Tricks and Temptations

XXII Appetite

XXIII The War of Seasons

XXIV A Fledgling Thief

XXV The Vortex

XXVI Living Proof

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

The Thief of Always

I

Harvey, Half-Devoured

THE GREAT grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.

He didn’t think much of his chances. More than likely he’d become so bored as the hours crawled by that one day he’d simply forget to breathe. Then maybe people would wonder why such a fine young lad had perished in his prime. It would become a celebrated mystery, which wouldn’t be solved until some great detective decided to recreate a day in Harvey’s life.

Then, and only then, would the grim truth be discovered. The detective would first follow Harvey’s route to school every morning, trekking through the dismal streets. Then he’d sit at Harvey’s desk, and listen to the pitiful drone of the history teacher and the science teacher, and wonder how the heroic boy had managed to keep his eyes open. And finally, as the wasted day dwindled to dusk, he’d trace the homeward trek, and as he set foot on the step from which he had departed that morning, and people asked him – as they would – why such a sweet soul as Harvey had died, he would shake his head and say:

‘It’s very simple.’

‘Oh?’ the curious crowd would say. ‘Do tell.’

And, brushing away a tear, the detective would reply:

‘Harvey Swick was eaten by the great grey beast February.’

IT WAS A monstrous month, that was for sure; a dire and dreary month. The pleasures of Christmas, both sharp and sweet, were already dimming in Harvey’s memory, and the promise of summer was so remote as to be mythical. There’d be a spring break, of course, but how far off was that? Five weeks? Six? Mathematics wasn’t his strong point, so he didn’t irritate himself further by attempting – and failing – to calculate the days. He simply knew that long before the sun came to save him he would have withered away in the belly of the beast.

‘YOU SHOULDN’T WASTE your time sitting up here,’ his Mum said when she came in and found him watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass of his bedroom window.

‘I’ve got nothing better to do,’ Harvey said, without looking round.

‘Well then, you can make yourself useful,’ his Mum said.

Harvey shuddered. Useful? That was another word for hard labour. He sprang up, marshalling his excuses – he hadn’t done this; he hadn’t done that – but it was too late.

‘You can start by tidying up this room,’ his Mum said.

‘But—’

‘Don’t sit wishing the days away, dear. Life’s too short.’

‘But—’

‘That’s a good boy.’

And with that she left him to it. Muttering to himself, he stared around the room. It wasn’t even untidy. There were one or two games scattered around; a couple of drawers open; a few clothes hanging out: it looked just fine.

‘I am ten,’ he said to himself (having no brothers and sisters he talked to himself a good deal). ‘I mean, it’s not as if I’m a kid. I don’t have to tidy up just because she says so. It’s boring.’

He wasn’t just muttering now, he was talking out loud.

‘I want to … I want to …’ He went to the mirror, and quizzed it. ‘What do I want?’ The straw-haired, snub-nosed, brown-eyed boy he saw before him shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said. ‘I just know I’ll die if I don’t have some fun. I will! I’ll die!’

As he spoke, the window rattled. A gust of wind blew hard against it – then a second; then a third – and even though Harvey didn’t remember the window being so much as an inch ajar, it was suddenly thrown open. Cold rain spattered his face. Half-closing his eyes he crossed to the window and fumbled to slam it, making sure that the latch was in place this time.

The wind had started his lamp moving, and when he turned back the whole room seemed to be swinging around. One moment the light was blazing in his eyes, the next it was flooding the opposite wall. But in between the blaze and the flood it lit the middle of his room, and standing there – shaking the rain off his hat – was a stranger.

He looked harmless enough. He was no more than six inches taller than Harvey, his frame scrawny, his skin distinctly yellowish in colour. He was wearing a fancy suit, a pair of spectacles and a lavish smile.

‘Who are you?’ Harvey demanded, wondering how he could get past this interloper to the door.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ the man replied, teasing off one of his suede gloves, taking Harvey’s hand and shaking it. ‘My name’s Rictus. You are Harvey Swick, aren’t you?’

‘Yes …’

‘I thought for a moment I’d got the wrong house.’

Harvey couldn’t take his eyes off Rictus’ grin. It was wide enough to shame a shark, with two perfect rows of gleaming teeth.

Rictus took off his spectacles, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waterlogged jacket, then started to mop off the raindrops. Either he or the handkerchief gave off an odour that was far from fragrant. The smell, in truth, was flatulent.

‘You’ve got questions, I can see that,’ Rictus said to Harvey.

‘Yeah.’

‘Ask away. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Well, how did you get in, for one thing?’

‘Through the window, of course.’

‘It’s a long way up from the street.’

‘Not if you’re flying.’

‘Flying?’

‘Of course. How else was I going to get around on a foul night like this? It was either that or a row-boat. We short folk gotta watch out when it’s raining this hard. One wrong step and you’re swimming.’ He peered at Harvey quizzically. ‘Do you swim?’

‘In the summer, sometimes,’ Harvey replied, wanting to get back to the business of flying.

But Rictus took the conversation in another direction entirely. ‘On nights like this,’ he said, ‘doesn’t it seem like there’ll never be another summer?’

‘It certainly does,’ said Harvey.

‘You know I heard you sighing a mile off, and I said to myself: “There’s a kid who needs a holiday.”’ He consulted his watch. ‘If you’ve got the time, that is.’

‘The time?’

‘For a trip, boy, for a trip! You need an adventure, young Swick. Somewhere … out of this world.’

‘How’d you hear me sighing when you were a mile away?’ Harvey wanted to know.

‘Why should you care? I heard you. That’s all that matters.’

‘Is it magic of some kind?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

Rictus gave Harvey a beady stare. ‘I think you’re too inquisitive for your own good, that’s why,’ he said, his smile decaying a little. ‘If you don’t want help, that’s fine by me.’

He made a move towards the window. The wind was still gusting against the glass, as though eager to come back in and carry its passenger away.

‘Wait,’ Harvey said.

‘For what?”

‘I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.’

Rictus halted, his hand on the latch. ‘No more questions, eh?’

‘I promise,’ said Harvey. ‘I told you: I’m sorry.’

‘So you did. So you did.’ Rictus peered out at the rain. ‘I know a place where the days are always sunny,’ he said, ‘and the nights are full of wonders.’

‘Could you take me there?’

‘We said no questions, boy. We agreed.’

‘Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry.’

‘Being a forgiving sort, I’ll forget you spoke, and I’ll tell you this: if you want me to enquire on your behalf, I’ll see if they’ve got room for another guest.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘I’m not guaranteeing anything,’ Rictus said, opening the latch.

‘I understand.’

The wind gusted suddenly, and blew the window wide. The light began to swing wildly.

‘Watch for me,’ Rictus yelled above the din of rain and wind.

Harvey started to ask him if he’d be coming back soon, but stopped himself in the nick of time.

‘No questions, boy!’ Rictus said, and as he spoke the wind seemed to fill up his coat. It rose around him like a black balloon, and he was suddenly swept out over the windowsill.

‘Questions rot the mind!’ he called back as he went. ‘Keep your mouth shut and we’ll see what comes your way!’

And with that the wind carried him off, the balloon of his coat rising like a black moon against the rainy sky.

II

The Hidden Way

HARVEY SAID nothing about his peculiar visitor to either his Mum or his Dad, in case they put locks on the windows to stop Rictus returning to the house. But the trouble with keeping the visit a secret was that after a few days Harvey began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at the window, he thought, and Rictus had simply been a dream.

He kept hoping nevertheless. ‘Watch for me,’ Rictus had said, and Harvey did just that. He watched from the window of his room. He watched from his desk at school. He even watched with one eye when he was lying on his pillow at night. But Rictus didn’t show up.

And then, about a week after that first visit, just as Harvey’s hope was waning, his watchfulness was rewarded. On his way to school one foggy morning he heard a voice above his head, and looked up to see Rictus floating down from the clouds, his coat swelled up around him so that he looked fatter than a prize pig.

‘Howya doin’?’ he said, as he descended.

‘I was starting to think I’d invented you,’ Harvey replied. ‘You know, like a dream.’

‘I get that a lot,’ Rictus said, his smile wider than ever. ‘Particularly from the ladies. You’re a dream come true, they say.’ He winked. ‘And who am I to argue? You like my shoes?’

Harvey looked down at Rictus’ bright blue shoes. They were quite a sight, and he said so.

‘I got given ’em by my boss,’ Rictus said. ‘He’s very happy you’re coming to visit. So, are you ready?’

‘Well …’

‘It’s no use wasting time,’ Rictus said. ‘There may not be room for you tomorrow.’

‘Can I just ask one question?’

‘I thought we agreed—’

‘I know. But just one.’

‘All right. One.’

‘Is this place far from here?’

‘Nah. It’s just across town.’

‘So I’d only be missing a couple of hours of school?’

‘That’s two questions,’ Rictus said.

‘No, I’m just thinking out loud.’

Rictus grunted. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not here to do a great song and dance persuading you. I’ve got a friend called Jive does that. I’m just a smiler. I smile, and I say: come with me to the Holiday House, and if folks don’t want to come—’ He shrugged. ‘Hey, it’s their hard luck.’

With that, he turned his back on Harvey.

‘Wait!’ Harvey protested. ‘I want to come. But just for a little while.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ Rictus said. ‘Or as little. All I want to do is take that glum expression off your face and put one of these up there.’ His grin grew even larger. ‘Is there any crime in that?’

‘No,’ said Harvey. ‘That’s no crime. I’m glad you found me. I really am.’

So what if he missed all of the morning at school, he thought, it’d be no great loss. Maybe an hour or two of the afternoon as well. As long as he was back home by three. Or four. Certainly before dark.

‘I’m ready to go,’ he said to Rictus. ‘Lead the way.’

MILLSAP, THE TOWN in which Harvey had lived all his life, wasn’t very big, and he thought he’d seen just about all of it over the years. But the streets he knew were soon behind them, and though Rictus was setting a fair speed Harvey made sure he kept a mental list of landmarks along the way, in case he had to find his way home on his own. A butcher’s shop with two pigs’ heads hanging from hooks; a church with a yard full of old tombs beside it; the statue of some dead general, covered from hat to stirrups in pigeon-dung: all these sights and more he noted and filed away.

And while they walked, Rictus kept up a stream of idle chatter.

‘I hate the fog! Just hate it!’ he said. ‘And there’ll be rain by noon. We’ll be out of it, of course …’ He went on from talk of rain to the state of the streets. ‘Look at this rubbish, all over the pavement! It’s shameful! And the mud! It’s making a fine old mess of my shoes!’

He had plenty more to say, but none of it was very enlightening, so after a while Harvey gave up listening. How far was this Holiday House, he began to wonder. The fog was chilling him, and his legs were aching. If they didn’t get there soon, he was going to turn back.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Rictus.

‘I bet you don’t.’

‘You’re thinking this is all a trick. You’re thinking Rictus is leading you on a mystery tour and there’s nothing at the end of it. Isn’t that true?’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘Well, my boy, I’ve got news for you. Look up ahead.’

He pointed, and there – not very far from where they stood – was a high wall, which was so long that it disappeared into the fog to right and left.

‘What do you see?’ Rictus asked him.

‘A wall,’ Harvey replied, though the more he stared at it the less certain of this he was. The stones, which had seemed solid enough at first sight, now looked to be shifting and wavering, as though they’d been chiselled from the fog itself, and piled up here to keep out prying eyes.

‘It looks like a wall,’ Harvey said, ‘but it’s not a wall.’

‘You’re very observant,’ Rictus replied admiringly. ‘Most people just see a dead end, so they turn round and take another street.’

‘But not us.’

‘No, not us. We’re going to keep on walking. You know why?’

‘Because the Holiday House is on the other side?’

‘What a mir-ac-u-lous kid you are!’ Rictus replied. ‘That’s exactly right. Are you hungry, by the way?’

‘Starving.’

‘Well, there’s a woman waiting for you in the House called Mrs Griffin, and let me tell you, she is the greatest cook in all the world. I swear, on my tailor’s grave. Anything you can dream of eating, she can cook. All you have to do is ask. Her devilled eggs—’ He smacked his lips. ‘Perfection.’

‘I don’t see a gate,’ Harvey said.

‘That’s because there isn’t one.’

‘So how do we get in?’

‘Just keep walking!’

Half out of hunger, half out of curiosity, Harvey did as Rictus had instructed, and as he came within three steps of the wall a gust of balmy, flower-scented wind slipped between the shimmering stones and kissed his cheek. Its warmth was welcome after his long, cold trek, and he picked up his pace, reaching out to touch the wall as he approached it. The misty stones seemed to reach for him in their turn, wrapping their soft, grey arms around his shoulders, and ushering him through the wall.

He looked back, but the street he’d stepped out of, with its grey pavements and grey clouds, had already disappeared. Beneath his feet the grass was high and full of flowers. Above his head, the sky was midsummer blue. And ahead of him, set at the summit of a great slope, was a House that had surely been first imagined in a dream.

He didn’t wait to see if Rictus was coming after him, nor to wonder how the grey beast February had been slain and this warm day risen in its place. He simply let out a laugh that Rictus would have been proud of, and hurried up the slope and into the shadow of the Dream-House.

III

Pleasure and the Worm

WHAT A fine thing it would be, Harvey thought, to build a place like this. To drive its foundations deep into the earth; to lay its floors and hoist its walls; to say: where there was nothing, I raised a house. That would be a very fine thing.

It wasn’t a puffed-up peacock of a place, either. There were no marble steps, no fluted columns. It was a proud house, certainly, but there was nothing wrong with that; it had much to be proud of. It stood four storeys high, and boasted more windows than Harvey could readily count. Its porch was wide, as were the steps that led up to its carved front door; its slated roofs were steep and crowned with magnificent chimneys and lightning rods.

Its highest point, however, was neither a chimney nor a lightning rod, but a large and elaborately wrought weathervane, which Harvey was peering up at when he heard the front door open and a voice say:

‘Harvey Swick, as I live and breathe.’

He looked down, the weathervane’s white silhouette still behind his eyes, and there on the porch stood a woman who made his grandmother (the oldest person he knew) look young. She had a face like a rolled-up ball of cobwebs, from which her hair, which could also have been spiders’ work, fell in wispy abundance. Her eyes were tiny, her mouth tight, her hands gnarled. Her voice, however, was melodious, and its words welcoming.

‘I thought maybe you’d decided not to come,’ she said, picking up a basket of freshly-cut flowers she’d left on the step, ‘which would have been a pity. Come on in! There’s food on the table. You must be famished.’

‘I can’t stay long,’ Harvey said.

‘You must do whatever you wish,’ came the reply. ‘I’m Mrs Griffin, by the way.’

‘Yes, Rictus mentioned you.’

‘I hope he didn’t bend your ear too much. He loves the sound of his own voice. That and his reflection.’

Harvey had climbed the porch steps by now, and stopped in front of the open door. This was a moment of decision, he knew, though he wasn’t quite certain why.

‘Step inside,’ Mrs Griffin said, brushing a spider-hair back from her furrowed brow.