Weaveworld (43 page)

They weren’t empty-handed. They were carrying the carpet. God, the carpet! He looked about him for the Incantatrix, but there was no-one near to aid him except the horse, who was well past aiding anybody.

Stay calm
, he told himself,
you’ve still got the jacket.
He brushed off the worst of the dirt he’d acquired, centred the knot of his tie, then walked over to intercept the thieves.

‘Thank you so much,’ he said as he approached them, ‘for preserving my property.’

Suzanna gave him a single glance, then told the carpet-bearers:

‘Ignore him.’

That said, she led them towards the road.

Shadwell went after them quickly, and took firm hold of the woman’s arm. He was determined to preserve his politeness as long as possible; it always confused the enemy.

‘Do we have a problem here?’ he wondered.

‘No problem,’ Suzanna said.

‘The carpet belongs to me. Miss Parrish. I insist that it remain here.’

Suzanna looked around for Jerichau. They’d become separated in the last minutes of her briefing at Capra’s House, when Messimeris had taken her aside to offer her some words of advice. He had still been in full flow when the Weave had reached the doorstep of Capra’s House: she had never heard his final remarks.

‘Please …’ said Shadwell, smiling. ‘We can surely come to some arrangement. If you wish, I’ll buy the item off you. How much shall we say?’

He opened his jacket, no longer directing his spiel at Suzanna but at the two who were carrying the carpet. Strong armed they might be, but easy fodder. Already they were staring into the folds of the jacket.

‘Maybe you see something you like?’ he said.

‘It’s a trick,’ said Suzanna.

‘But
look –’
one of them said to her, and damn it if she instinctively didn’t do exactly that. Had the night not brought so many exhausting diversions she would have had the strength to avert her sight immediately, but she wasn’t fast enough. Something glimmered in the mother-of-pearl lining, and she could not quite unhook her gaze.

‘You
do
see something –’ Shadwell said to her. ‘Something pretty, for a pretty woman.’

She did. The raptures of the jacket had seized her in two seconds flat, and she couldn’t resist its mischief.

At the back of her head a voice called her name, but she ignored it. Again, it called.
Look away
, it said, but she could see something taking shape in the lining, and it tantalized her.

‘No, damn you!’
the same voice shouted, and this time a blurred figure came between her and Shadwell. Her reverie broke, and she was thrown from the jacket’s soothing embrace
to see Cal in front of her, throwing a barrage of punches at the enemy. Shadwell was much the bigger of the two men, but the heat of Cal’s fury had momentarily cowed him.

‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Cal yelled.

By now Shadwell had overcome his shock, and launched himself upon Cal, who reeled before the retaliation. Knowing he’d lose the bout in seconds, he ducked beneath Shadwell’s fists and took hold of the Salesman in a bear-hug. They wrestled for several seconds: precious time which Suzanna seized to lead the carpet-carriers through the rubble and away.

Their escape came not a moment too soon. In the time she’d been distracted by the jacket, day had almost come upon them. They’d soon be easy targets for Immacolata, or indeed anyone else who wanted to stop them.

Hobart, for instance. She saw him now, as they reached the edge of Shearman’s estate, stepping out of a car parked in the street. Even in this dubious light – and at some distance – she knew it was he. Her hatred smelt him. And she knew too, with some prophetic sense the menstruum had undammed in her, that even if they escaped him now, the pursuit would not stop here. She’d made an enemy for the millennium.

She didn’t watch him for long. Why bother? She could perfectly recall every nick and pore upon his barren face; and if the memory ever grew a little dim all she would have to do was look over her shoulder.

Damn him, he’d be there.

3

Though Cal held onto Shadwell with the tenacity of a terrier, the Salesman’s superior weight rapidly gained the day. Cal was thrown down amongst the bricks, and Shadwell closed in. No quarter was given. Shadwell began to kick him, not once but a dozen times.

‘Fucking bastard!’
he yelled.

The kicks kept coming, timed to prevent Cal getting up.

‘I’m going to break every bone in your fucking body,’
Shadwell promised.
‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’

He might have done it too, but that somebody said:

‘You –’

Shadwell’s assault stopped momentarily, and Cal looked past the Salesman’s legs to the man in dark glasses who was approaching. It was the policeman from Chariot Street.

Shadwell turned on the man.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

‘Inspector Hobart,’ came the reply.

Cal could imagine the wave of guilelessness that would now be breaking over Shadwell’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice:

‘Inspector. Of course. Of
course.’

‘And you?’ Hobart returned. ‘Who
are you?’

Cal didn’t hear the rest of the exchange. He was occupied with the business of making his bruised body crawl away through the rubble, hoping the same good fortune that had let him escape alive had speeded Suzanna on her way.

Where is she?’

Where’s who?’

‘The woman who was here,’ said Hobart. He took off his glasses, the better to see this suspect in the half-light. The man has dangerous eyes, thought Shadwell. He has the eyes of a rabid fox. And he wants Suzanna too. How interesting.

‘Her name is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Hobart.

‘Ah,’ said Shadwell.

‘You know her?’

‘Indeed I do. She’s a thief.’

‘She’s a good deal worse than that.’

What’s worse than a thief?
thought Shadwell. But said: ‘Is that so?’

‘She’s wanted for questioning on charges of terrorism.’

‘And you’re here to arrest her?’

‘I am.’

‘Good man,’ said Shadwell. What better? he thought: an
upstanding, fine-principled, Law-loving despot. Who could ask for a better ally in such troubled times?

‘I have some evidence,’ he said, ‘that may be of value to you. But strictly for your eyes only.’

On Hobart’s instruction Richardson retired a little way.

‘I’m in no mood for games,’ Hobart warned.

‘Believe me,’ said Shadwell, ‘upon my mother’s eyes:
this is no game.’

He opened his jacket. The Inspector’s fretful glance went immediately to the lining. He’s hungry, thought Shadwell; he’s
so
hungry. But what for? That would be interesting to see. What would friend Hobart desire most in all the wide world?

‘Maybe … you see something there that catches your eye?’

Hobart smiled; nodded.

‘You do? Then take it, please. It’s yours.’

The Inspector reached towards the jacket.

‘Go on,’ Shadwell encouraged him. He’d never seen such a look on any human face: such a wilderness of innocent malice.

A light ignited within the jacket, and Hobart’s eyes suddenly grew wilder still. Then he was drawing his hand out of the lining, and Shadwell almost let out a yelp of surprise as he shared the lunatic’s vision. In the palm of the man’s hand a livid fire was burning, its flames yellow and white. They leapt a foot high, eager for something to consume, their brilliance echoed in Hobart’s eyes.

‘Oh yes,’ said Hobart. ‘Give me fire –’

‘It’s yours, my friend.’

‘– and I’ll burn them away.’

Shadwell smiled.

‘You and I together,’ he proposed.

Thus began a marriage made in Hell.

Part Six

Back Among the
Blind Men

‘If a man could pass through
Paradise in a dream, and have
a flower presented to him as a
pledge that his soul had really
been there, and if he found that
flower in his hand when he
awoke – Aye, and what then?’

S. T. Coleridge
Anima Poetae

I

TIME’S GONE BY

1

he people of Chariot Street had witnessed some rare scenes in recent times, but they’d re-established the status quo with admirable zeal. It was just before eight in the morning when Cal got off the bus and began the short walk to the Mooney residence, and everywhere along the street the same domestic rituals that he’d witnessed here since his childhood were being played out. Radios announced the morning’s news through open windows and doors: a Parliamentarian had been found dead in his mistress’ arms; bombs had been dropped in the Middle East. Slaughter and scandal, scandal and slaughter. And was the tea too weak this morning, my dear?; and did the children wash behind their ears?

He let himself into the house, turning over yet again the problem of what to tell Brendan. Anything less than the truth might beg more questions than it answered; and yet to tell the whole story… was that even
possible?
Did the words exist to evoke more than an echo of the sights he’d seen, the feelings he’d felt?

The house was quiet, which was worrying. Brendan had been a dawn riser since his days working on the Docks; even during the worst of recent times he’d been up to greet his grief early.

Cal called his father’s name. There was no response.

He went through to the kitchen. The garden looked like a battlefield. He called again, then went to search upstairs.

His father’s bedroom door was closed. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside, something he’d never known happen before. He knocked lightly.

‘Dad?’ he said. ‘Are you there?’

He waited several seconds, listening closely, then repeated his enquiry. This time from within came a quiet sobbing.

Thank God,’ he breathed. ‘Dad? It’s Cal.’ The sobbing softened. ‘Will you let me in. Dad?’

There was a short interval; then he heard his father’s footsteps as he crossed to the bedroom door. The key was turned; the door was opened a reluctant six inches.

The face on the other side was more shadow than man. Brendan looked neither to have washed nor shaved since the previous day.

‘Oh God … Dad.’

Brendan peered at his son with naked suspicion, ‘Is it really you?’

The comment reminded Cal of how he must look: his face bloodied and bruised.

‘I’m all right. Dad,’ he said, offering a smile. ‘What about you?’

‘Are all the doors closed?’ Brendan wanted to know.

‘The doors? Yes.’

‘And the windows?’

‘Yes.’

Brendan nodded. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘I told you, yes. What’s wrong. Dad?’

‘The rats,’ said Brendan, his eyes scanning the landing behind Cal. ‘I heard them all night. They came up the stairs, they did. Sat at the top of the stairs. I heard them. Size of cats they were. They sat there waiting for me to come out.’

‘Well they’re not here any longer.’

‘Got in through the fence. Off the embankment. Dozens of them.’

‘Why don’t we go downstairs?’ Cal suggested, ‘I can make you some breakfast.’

‘No. I’m not coming down. Not today.’

Then I’ll make something and bring it up, shall I?’