The World House (23 page)

  "Sophie!" he shouted again, catching sight of a shape bobbing nearby. "Sophie?" He swam towards it, overcome with relief when he drew close enough to tell it was her, flat on her back in the rippling water. "You had me worried, honey," he said as he drew up next to her.

  "Not honey," she said, "plain, no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite or honey or anything,
plain
."

  "Er… OK. We should swim back now though, OK?"

  "No. The sea is happy. Lie back and see."

  Alan made to argue but stopped himself. What the

hell was the harm, hadn't they earned a moment's peace?

  He flipped on to his back and tried to relax. He always struggled to float, too damn tense… Not in this water, in this water he could float just fine. Slowly he let himself go. He was no longer floating on the water, he was the water, rising up and down with the tide. He imagined himself dissolving, breaking up, fizzing, losing the cohesion that weighed him down with every moment. Not just the time in the house, all of it: the hot Florida sun, the students, the sweat, the ignorance, the apathy, the therapy sessions.

  All of it.

  Gone.

  Nothing but the water.

  "This is wonderful," he whispered.

  "Shush," said Sophie, "they are coming."

  And they came. Great shoals of fish, swirling around them, their little mouths puckering against his body, tickling, stroking, kissing.

  Alan had never known a peace like it.

 
 
 

"He looks like someone from my era," said Penelope as they carried the stranger to a mattress. "It's all right," she shouted, leaning over him, "you'll be able to move soon!"

  "My dearest Miss Simons, I am quite sure deafness wasn't part of the transference process," said Carruthers.

  "Oh, yes, sorry…"

  The man was incredibly old, his skin a mess of soft wrinkles and liver spots. Miles picked up a fedora hat from where it had fallen from the stranger's head. He dropped it on to his own at a rakish angle. "The name's…erm…"

  "Caulfield," said Penelope, rolling her eyes.

  "Sorry, still a bit shaky on that one.
Ahem
… the name's Caulfield… Miles Caulfield. What's a goodlooking dame like you doing in this joint?"

  "Socialising with mad limeys," she replied, "and that has to be the worst American accent I've ever heard."

  "Fair enough," Miles replied, taking the hat off and placing it next to the man. "Think we should take his coat off too?"

  "We don't have to strip the poor man," she replied, straightening the tails of his gaberdine across his legs, "just keep an eye on him while he comes around… Oh…" She held up a large handgun. "It was in his pocket." She looked down at the old man. "I wasn't checking your pockets, it slipped out when I was straightening your coat, sorry!"

  "If you wouldn't mind, my dear?" Carruthers held his hand out for the gun. "A little more advanced than a revolver in my day," he said, taking it off her. He pulled the barrel pin and emptied the cartridges into his palm. "Though the principle is much the same." He handed the gun back to Penelope. "Return the man's property to his pocket with my apologies for making it redundant."

  "Wise move," said Miles, "he could be a raging nutter for all we know."

  "I haven't the faintest notion what one of those is," admitted Carruthers, "but on the assumption that it's the sort of cove one would dislike to see running around with a weapon then we're in agreement."

  "Exactly one of those sorts of coves, yes," Miles replied.

  "He can hear you, remember?" said Penelope. "As you just kindly reminded me, there's nothing wrong with his ears."

  "I'm sure no reasonable gentlemen would begrudge us a degree of caution," Carruthers assured her. "I will, of course, return the gentleman's property to him once we are utterly reassured that it is safe to do so. Now, rather than crowd the poor chap might I suggest that we get on with our preparations and allow him to come around in his own good time."

  Penelope nodded. "You're quite right, of course." She noticed a book on the floor. "In all things it would seem," she said, holding it up. "Chester's biography, now with great chunks of it missing. It seems I was never meant to know."

  Carruthers smiled. "Abandon it, my dear. The past is too weighty a burden to carry with us for ever."

  Penelope tossed it to the floor and returned to the piles of spare clothing Carruthers had gathered (after all, she couldn't travel without a small selection of outfits – a lady had to have some principles).

  Miles walked over to Carruthers. "Do you think he'll want to come with us?" he whispered, gesturing towards the old man.

  "Who can say?" Carruthers replied. "He doesn't look sprightly enough to get far. Not that we can really leave him here…"

  "I don't see why not, it's not like you plan on returning to the camp."

  "That is neither here nor there. As last night proved, he is no safer here than anywhere in this godforsaken building. If we leave him our consciences must accept the consequences."

  "You never know, he may be stronger than he looks."

  "In that case he will be more of a benefit travelling alongside us than not. Anyway, it's all immaterial, it must be his choice."

  "I suppose." Miles noticed the old man's fingers beginning to twitch. "Won't be long before we can ask him."

  "How many bags are we taking?" Penelope shouted. "Just so I know how many shirts to take."

  "Dear God," Carruthers muttered under his breath, "perhaps it's Penelope we should leave behind?"

  Miles smiled. "One bag each, I'd say." He looked at Carruthers. "Agreed, o seasoned explorer?"

  "Agreed." Carruthers nodded. "And maybe you might like to bear in mind some of the essentials we'll have to split between us before you fill yours?"

  "How is a shirt not essential?" Penelope asked. "It's not as if I'm suggesting cocktail gowns, is it? What could be more essential than a shirt?"

  "Food?" asked Miles.

  "Ah." Penelope looked at the pile of shirts draped over her arm. "There is that. Maybe only five or six then, you'd say?"

  "Or less?" Carruthers suggested.

  "How many less?"

  "Five or six less?" Miles replied.

  Penelope scowled at him. "Very funny."

  "You really won't be able to carry more than one change of clothes, my dear," Carruthers explained. "A lack of crisp, laundered cotton will not kill us, whereas a lack of tinned beef may."

  "What a wretched and beastly excuse."

  "But true."

  The old man exhaled a rasp of breath, one arm twisting and turning spastically as he tried to lift it.

  "It's all right," Penelope said, dashing over and taking hold of his hand, "just relax, let it come." The man's face was twisted in either pain or terror, she couldn't tell which. "I don't think I was this bad," she said.

  "I was," said Miles, "but then I did have the added stress of animated taxidermy trying to kill me."

  "I say," Carruthers said, all ears, "you didn't tell me about that."

  "Well, didn't want to bore you, savaged by a tigerskin rug, we've all been there."

  "This house…" Carruthers shook his head in disbelief.

  Penelope brushed his thin fringe from the old man's eyes. "Don't get too close," Miles said, passing her on his way to their supply of tinned foods.

  Men! she thought, so suspicious, seeing danger in everyone. They didn't possess the intuition women had in such things, too busy trying to look bigger and stronger than everyone else. There was no danger in this man, Penelope simply knew it. She could tell from his watery, powder-blue eyes and his full lips. They were lips that were born to smile, not scowl.

  He mumbled something but she couldn't hear. "What was that?" she asked.

  "Who is it?" he whispered.

  "Penelope Simons, honey, of the Massachusetts Simons. Over there you have Roger Carruthers, the renowned explorer, and Miles Caulfield the… well… Miles Caulfield."

  "Penelope?" he repeated.

  "Yes, dear, and I'm sure we're all going to be the best of friends so don't you worry about that."

  "Friends…"

  "That's right, real friends. And don't worry about what's happening to you now, it really doesn't last long – a few more minutes and you'll be back on your feet again. It's what always seems to happen when you arrive here in the house. Oh, not that you know anything about that, of course… the box, do you remember the box?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, somehow it brings you here, please don't ask me how as I couldn't even begin to tell you, it really is the most disturbing thing one can imagine…
anyway
, 'here' is a house, well, sort of a house, it's not really a normal house because sometimes the corridors just go on and on and on, and you wouldn't believe the size of this library – and the books all tell the life stories of real people, I mean, can you believe it? Your whole life written down as a biography… unless you're here, of course, in which case the book just sort of keeps writing itself. We think this is probably because we're out of time here… as in 'outside' of time, of course, not out of time as in 'run out of time' because hopefully that's not the case, or maybe it is? I hope not, obviously, but then you wouldn't believe the creatures here, we've just been infested with bookworms the size of babies, one of them bit me – do you want to see? Course you don't, why would you want to see that? You just want to get back on your feet again, don't you? We're going to try and find a way out of here and you're only too welcome to join us, more the merrier! As I said, Carruthers is a famous explorer so that's got to be good – if anyone stands a chance of getting us out of here it's him, don't you think? Of course, you couldn't really say, could you? You haven't even met him. Maybe you could say you've heard of him though as he really is terribly sweet and I just know it would mean the world to him. Not that I know him that well myself, or Miles, but sometimes you just have to trust, don't you? When you're in trouble – and we are certainly in trouble – then you need to band together and rely on each other. That's what I think anyway. Oh dear God, I'm talking and talking, I've started wittering, haven't I? I'm so sorry, it must be the nerves, it's just all started flooding out. Maybe it's because you've got kind eyes?"

  "Or maybe just that I can't interrupt?" the old man said with a half-smile. "I can feel my legs."

  "Oh, that's wonderful!" Penelope wanted to climb into one of the bigger books and slam it closed on her silly waffling face. "Do you think you can sit up yet?"

  "I can certainly try," he said. With a groan and a lot of help from Penelope he managed to get himself upright.

  "Back in the land of the living, eh?" asked Carruthers as he stepped over.

  "On my way, I think," the old man replied.

  "Splendid, Roger Carruthers, explorer, adventurer, diarist…"

  "I've heard of you, of course," the old man replied, not acknowledging Penelope's smile as he did so, "though I must admit I haven't read your work. My apologies."

  "Oh, don't be silly, dear chap," Carruthers replied, quite beside himself with glee, "never enough hours in the day, eh? Why, if you could only see the books piled in my study that have waited years for my attentions."

  "Miles Caulfield," said Miles, having also joined them. He extended his hand and the old man made a valiant effort to return the gesture, Penelope supporting his elbow in the end so he could at least brush Miles' hand with his own.

  "Pleased to meet you."

  "And you are?" hinted Carruthers.

  "Oh… Gregory Ashe, forgive me, it's just…"

  "Disorientating," Penelope said, "we quite understand, don't we?" She looked at Miles and Carruthers.

  "Naturally, you must have a lot of questions."

  Ashe smiled. "I think Miss Simons here must have answered any it were possible to have!"

"I did go on rather," Penelope admitted.

  "Well, I'm sure she can continue in the same vein," Carruthers continued. "You must forgive us but Miles and I need to continue preparations for our journey. As Penelope may have mentioned we are planning to find a way out of this most unnatural imprisonment and you are only too welcome to join us in our efforts."

  "Thank you," Ashe replied.

  "Not at all." Carruthers gave a half bow and tugged on Miles' sleeve to ensure he followed him.

  "Seems all right, I suppose," Miles muttered as they walked away.

  "Really?" Carruthers said, leading Miles into the next row of stacks, "I found him deeply unconvincing personally. A man wakes up in the middle of an impossibly large library surrounded by strangers. Do you expect me to believe he simply accepts he has been transported through a box to a magic house? And 'My dear fellow, don't worry, we're all your very best friends, why don't you join us on our mission to find a way home?'"

  "Perhaps he's just trusting?"

  "Trusting? He'd have to be mentally subnormal, if you will forgive the vernacular."

  "So why did you invite him to join us then?"

  "All the better to keep an eye on the fellow."

  Carruthers was walking at a hell of a pace and Miles was struggling to keep up. "Expedition started already?" he asked, sarcastically.

  "Just a little research," Carruthers replied, running his fingers along the bookshelves as he searched for the right section.

  "Ah…" said Miles, "thought you'd read up on him, eh?"

  "Aha!" Carruthers climbed three rows off the ground and began yanking books from the shelf, scanning the last page and then piling them at the far end.