Weaveworld (30 page)

SO NEAR, SO FAR

1

he echoes that Cammell had spoken of were still loud and clear in Rue Street when, as evening drew on, Cal and his passengers arrived there. It was left to Apolline, using pages torn from the atlas spread out like playing cards on the bare boards of the upper room, to compute the carpet’s present location.

To Cal’s untutored eye it seemed she did this much the same way his mother had chosen horses for her annual flutter on the Derby, with closed eyes and a pin. It was only to be hoped that Apolline’s method was more reliable; Eileen Mooney had never chosen a winner in her life.

There was a burst of controversy half way through the process, when Apolline – who appeared to have entered a trance of some kind – spat a hail of pips onto the floor. Freddy made some scathing remark at this, and Apolline’s eyes snapped open.

‘Will you keep your damn silence?’ she said. This is bloody hard work.’

‘It’s not wise to use the Giddies,’ he said. They’re unreliable.’

‘You want to take over?’ she challenged him.

‘You know I’ve got no skill with that.’

‘Then bite your tongue,’ she snapped. ‘And leave me to it, will you? Go on!’ She got to her feet and pushed him towards the door. ‘Go on. Get out of here. All of you.’

They withdrew to the landing, where Freddy continued to
complain. ‘The woman’s lazy,’ he said. ‘Lilia didn’t need the fruit.’

‘Lilia was special,’ said Nimrod, sitting at the top of the stairs, still wrapped in his tattered shirt. ‘Let her do it her way, will you? She’s not stupid.’

Freddy sought solace with Cal. ‘I don’t belong to these people.’ he protested. ‘It’s all a terrible error. I’m not a thief.’

‘What is your profession then?’

‘I’m a barber. And you?’

‘I work in an insurance company.’ It seemed odd to think of that; of his desk, the claim forms piling up in the tray; of the doodles he’d left on the blotting paper. It was another world.

The bedroom door opened. Apolline was standing there, with one of the pages from the atlas in her hand.

‘Well?’ said Freddy.

She handed the page to Cal.

‘I’ve found it.’ she said.

2

The trail of echoes led them across the Mersey, through Birkenhead, and over Irby Hill, to the vicinity of Thurstaston Common. Cal knew the area not at all, and was surprised to find such rural territory within a hop, skip and a jump of the city.

They circled the area, Apolline in the passenger seat, eyes closed, until she announced:

‘It’s here. Stop here.’

Cal drew up. The large house they had arrived outside was in darkness, although there were several impressive vehicles in the driveway. They vacated the car, climbed the wall, and approached.

‘This is it,’ Apolline announced. ‘I can practically smell the Weave.’

Cal and Freddy made two complete circuits of the building, looking for an entrance that wasn’t locked, and on the second
trip found a window which, while too small for an adult, offered easy access to Nimrod.

‘Softly, softly does it,’ Cal counselled, as he hoisted Nimrod through. ‘We’ll wait by the front door.’

‘What are our tactics?’ Cammell enquired.

‘We get in. We take the carpet. We bugger off again,’ said Cal.

There was a muffled thump as Nimrod leapt or tumbled from the sill on the other side. They waited a moment. There was no further sound, so they returned to the front of the house, and waited in the darkness. A minute passed; and another, and yet another. Finally, the door opened, and Nimrod was standing there, beaming.

‘Lost my way,’ he whispered.

They slipped inside. Both lower and upper floors were unlit, but there was nothing restful about the darkness. The air was agitated, as if the dust couldn’t quite bear to settle.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone here,’ said Freddy, going to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Wrong,’ Cal whispered. There was no doubting the origin of the chill in the air.

Freddy ignored him. He had already climbed two or three steps. It passed through Cal’s head that his foolhardy show of indifference to danger, which was more than likely compensation for his cowardice at Chariot Street, would do no good to anyone. But Apolline was already accompanying Freddy upstairs, leaving Cal and Nimrod to investigate the ground floor.

Their route led them through a murky assault course, which Nimrod, being much the smaller, negotiated with more ease than Cal.

‘Poll’s right,’ Nimrod whispered as they passed from room to room. ‘The Weave’s here. I can feel it.’

So could Cal; and at the thought of the Fugue’s proximity he felt his courage bolstered. This time he wasn’t alone against Shadwell. He had allies, with powers of their own, and they had the element of surprise on their side. With a little luck they might steal the Salesman’s booty from under his nose.

Then there was a cry from the upper landing. It was unmistakably Freddy; his voice anguished. The next moment came the stomach-turning sound of his body tumbling down the stairs. Two minutes in, and the game was up.

Nimrod had already started back the way they’d come, apparently careless of the consequences. Cal followed, but stumbled into a table in the darkness, the corner of which found his groin.

As he stood upright, cupping his balls, he heard Immacolata’s voice. Her whisper seemed to come from every direction at once, as though she was in the very walls.

‘Seerkind …’
she said.

The next moment he felt an icy air against his face. He knew the sour stench it carried, from that night in the trash canyons by the river. It was the smell of corruption – the sisters’ corruption – and with it came a dismal light by which he could pick out the geography of the room he occupied. Of Nimrod there was no sign; he’d gone ahead into the hall, where the light was sourced. And now Cal heard him cry out. The light flickered. The cry stopped. The wind was chillier as the sisters came in search of further victims. He had to hide; and quickly. Eyes on the passage ahead, down which the light was spilling, he backed away towards the only exit door available.

The room he stepped into was the kitchen, and it offered nothing in the way of hiding places. His bladder aching, he went to the back door. It was securely locked. There was no key. Panic mounting, he glanced back through the kitchen door. The Magdalene was floating through the room he’d just left, her blind head moving back and forth as she scoured the air for a trace of human heat. It seemed he could feel her fingers at his throat already; her lips on his mouth.

Despairing, he scanned the kitchen one more time, and his gaze alighted on the refrigerator. As the Magdalene approached the kitchen, he crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. Arctic air billowed out to greet him. He threw the door as wide as possible, and bathed himself in the chill.

The Magdalene was on the kitchen threshold now, trails of her poison milk seeping from her breasts. There she hovered, as if uncertain of whether she sensed life here or not.

Cal stood absolutely still, praying the cold air would cancel his warmth. His muscles had begun to jitter, and the urge to piss was near enough unbearable. Still she didn’t move, except to put her hand on her perpetually swollen belly, and pat whatever slept there.

And then, from the next room, he heard the cracked voice of the Hag.

‘Sister …’ she whispered. She was coming through. He was lost if she entered.

The Magdalene advanced into the kitchen a little way, and her head turned with horrid intent in his direction. She glided a little closer. Cal held his breath.

The creature was within two yards of him now, her head still moving back and forth on a neck of mucus and ether. Beads of her bitter milk floated towards him and broke against his face. She sensed something, that was clear, but the cold air was confusing her. He set the muscles of his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering, praying for some diversion from above.

The shadow of the Hag fell through the open door.

‘Sister?’ she said again. ‘Are we alone?’

The Magdalene’s head drifted forward, her neck becoming grotesquely long and thin, until her blind face hovered a foot from Cal’s. It was all he could do to prevent himself from running.

Then, she seemed to make up her mind. She turned towards the door.

‘All alone,’ she said, and drifted back to join her sister. With every foot of ground she covered he was certain she’d think better of her retreat, and come in search of him again. But she disappeared through the kitchen door, and they left to get on with business elsewhere.

He waited for a full minute until the last vestiges of their phosphorescence had faded. Then, gasping for breath, he stepped away from the refrigerator.

From above he heard shouts. He shuddered to think what entertainments were afoot here. Shuddered too at the thought that he was now alone.

IV

BREAKING THE LAW

1

t was Jerichau’s voice she heard, Suzanna had no doubt of that, and it was raised in wordless protest. The cry startled her from the murky pit that had claimed her since Hobart’s departure. She was at the door in seconds, and beating on it.

‘What’s happening?’ she demanded.

There was no reply from the guard on the other side; only another heart-rending shout from Jerichau.
What were they doing to him?

She’d lived all her life in England, and – never having had more than a casual acquaintance with the law – had assumed it a fairly healthy animal. But now she was in its belly, and it was sick; very sick.

Again she beat a tattoo on the door, again it went unanswered. Tears of impotence began, stinging her sinuses and eyes. She put her back to the door and tried to stifle the sobs with her hand, but they wouldn’t be quelled.

Aware that the officer in the corridor could hear her sorrows, she started across to the other side of the cell, but something stopped her dead in her tracks. Through her watery vision she saw that the tears she’d shed on the back of her hand no longer resembled tears at all. They were almost silvery; and bursting, as she watched, into tiny spheres of luminescence. It might have come from a story in Mimi’s book: a woman who wept living tears. Except that this was no faery-tale. The
vision was somehow more real than the concrete walls that imprisoned her; more real even than the pain that had brought these tears to her eyes.

It was the menstruum she was weeping. She hadn’t felt it move in her since she’d knelt beside Cal at the warehouse, and events had proceeded so speedily from there she had given little thought to it. Now she felt the torrent afresh, and a wave of elation swept her.

Down the corridor Jerichau cried out again, and in response, the menstruum, bright to blinding, brimmed in her subtle body.

Unable to prevent herself, she yelled, and the stream of brightness became a flood, spilling from her eyes and nostrils, and from between her legs. Her gaze fell on the chair which Hobart had occupied and it instantly flung itself against the far wall, rattling against the concrete as if panicking to be gone from her presence. The table followed, smashing itself to splinters.