Manalone (11 page)

‘You’ve heard about Paul, then?’ An infinite weariness resided somewhere at the back of her husky throat.

Manalone nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve come to offer my condolences and to see if there’s anything I can do to help. It wasn’t an accident, you know. It was an MIPS execution.’

‘I guess he just ran out of luck.’ She was watching him curiously, probing beneath the surface. ‘But what about you, Manalone? I don’t see you walking about with your back to the wall.’

‘I doubt if the MIPS see me as much of a threat. They’ve been watching me very closely. They must know everything I do. But Paul was the information getter – I’m only the calculator. And without Paul I can’t progress very far. By killing him they’ve nullified both of us.’

‘Don’t underestimate your part. They killed him because of you. Don’t you know that?’ A reproach was hidden behind the enquiry.

‘I feared
as much, but I can’t appreciate the logic behind it. They could more easily have struck at me direct, because I’m a sitting target.’

She seemed to be about to make a further comment, then changed her mind. Manalone noted the fact but merely filed it away for future reference.

‘Aren’t you going to give it up – with Paul gone?’ she asked at last.

‘I can’t give it up, Kitten. I don’t even know
what
to give up. There’s a sort of mental breakthrough point – once you become aware there is a problem you find missing bits of information in almost everything you touch. It’s as though what we’ve been conditioned to accept as reality is actually a structure full of holes. The MIPS can’t mend the holes, but they can shoot anyone who threatens to get near enough to see what lies on the other side. Trouble is, the missing bits don’t seem to be related. I don’t have nearly enough information even to guess what lies beyond.’

‘And it’s a guessing game that can get you killed. Whatever’s beyond there, is it worth the risk?’

‘That I shan’t know until I can see it. But it must be something of considerable consequence, else the MIPS wouldn’t be so interested in trying to keep the lid on. What I need most is broadband information – something to fill in the gaps between. That’s what Paul was giving me, and something I’m going to find it difficult to do without.’

‘Don’t ask me for sympathy. Paul was also giving
me
a lot of things I’m going to find difficult to do without.’

‘I was hoping he might have left something – anything – which might give a name to the problem … what it was we nearly knew that made it necessary for him to be killed.’

‘Paul ran out of luck is all I know, Manalone. He left pieces here. If you want to search them I can’t stop you.’

Manalone was puzzled by her reticence. ‘Aren’t you interested in why Paul died?’

A flicker of pain crossed her face. ‘Knowing why, isn’t going to fetch him back.’ She nodded to the curtained partition behind which her children still hid. ‘Meanwhile I’ve two little mouths to feed, beside my own hungers.’

‘Paul’s
children?’ He already knew the answer, but felt impelled to make her say it.

‘No.’ She faced him squarely. ‘But Paul loved them. He clothed and fed us, and that was all we asked. We couldn’t afford your kind of morality.’

‘Who said anything about morality? How much did Paul give you a month?’

‘About two-hundred-fifty. It wasn’t enough, but we were luckier than most.’

Manalone felt in his pocket. ‘Here’s five thousand – no strings attached. I only ask a favour. Give yourself a few weeks before you decide on somebody else.’

She examined the bundle of notes critically. ‘What’s this – conscience money?’

‘No. Call it a memorial to Paul.’

‘You think I need reminding?’

‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘And I don’t take charity.’ With a savage gesture she threw the bundle of notes back into his face. ‘When I want money I’ll earn it in the usual way.’

‘You’re going to have to,’ said Manalone. ‘But if you’ve got something in hand you can afford to be more selective.’ He began to button his cloak. ‘Do you want the money or not?’

‘Sure as hell I want it. I’ve got children going to be crying for their breakfast if I haven’t got it. But Paul used to give me money because he needed my bed and my kind of loving. I don’t see what you’re doing it for.’

‘Paul was my friend. I know he loved both you and the children, Kitten – and that’s the main reason I came here. If I’d had children and been killed, do you think he’d have left them crying for their breakfast the morning after I’d gone?’

Her mood changed to sudden wonderment.

‘You’re really genuine, aren’t you?’ The idea seemed newly born. ‘You’re real – just as Paul always said you were.’

‘That’s my misfortune.’ He thrust the money back into her hands. She took it, then swiftly moved between him and the door.

‘You’re not going anywhere, Manalone. Not just yet.’

‘I’m afraid
I must. There’s nothing else I can do here. I’ve got problems of my own.’

‘I don’t doubt. But if you think you can give me five thousand and just walk out again, you’re mistaken. Mister, you’ve just bought yourself an obligation. I’m asking you to stay with me.’

‘Stay?’ For a moment Manalone missed the implication of the phrase, then his confusion threw him into a gulf of embarrassment. ‘That wasn’t what I came here for, Kitten. Especially with Paul … so recently gone.’

‘Listen to me, Manalone. I’ve a big bed, and without Paul it’s the loneliest place on earth. I couldn’t stand for being lonely tonight, lying there knowing Paul wasn’t ever going to come. For one last night I need somebody real.’

Manalone shook his head firmly.

‘I appreciate the gesture, Kitten. I wish these were other times and other circumstances. But I’m caught in a whirlpool of things I don’t begin to understand. I’ve the feeling of being on the edge of a catastrophe – but I don’t know if I’m running from it or towards it. Nor even what sort of disaster it might be. I’m not even sure if it engulfed Paul – or if it’s about to overwhelm the rest of us and he was the lucky one.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, Manalone.’

‘Riddles is all I have. Riddles stacked so high I can’t see the sun any more. But with all this on my mind, I doubt if you’d find me a very attentive lover.’

She seemed prepared to contradict, then stopped, suddenly listening to faraway sounds which had more than a casual meaning for her. She turned back to Manalone in alarm.

‘There’s a warning out for this section of the raft. The police are invading in force. I don’t know what the hell they’re after, but it’s safer if we get you out of here.’

‘Wait
here.’ Kitten ran hurriedly out of the door and returned a few minutes later with a scowling, thickset, stranger. ‘Go with him, Manalone. He’ll get you away if he can.’

Manalone bit his lip. He was not convinced that the coming of the police was in any way connected with himself, but he accepted her assurance that it was a possibility. Apparently such a massive raid was indicative of something very unusual, and it was obviously highly unwelcome. He could expect full co-operation in his escape, from occupants of the raft anxious not to have a wanted man found in their vicinity. Police enquiries had a way of expanding their scope into other areas; and since Manalone was an unknown quantity, he was going to be escorted off the raft whether he needed to go or not.

‘Thanks, Kitten! I’ll be in touch.’ Manalone shrugged and followed his guide, who was impatient to be away. Already the sound of police whistles was plain even to Manalone’s untutored ear. His guide led him along a tortuous path across the raft parallel to the shore. In the absence of any well defined alleys, they had constantly to make detours around shacks and corrugated hovels. Ever underfoot dangerous discontinuities in the haphazard decking offered traps which had to be avoided, and their progress was necessarily slow.

Now they could hear the sound of whistles from several points, growing nearer. The indications were that the police were advancing across the raft on a far broader front than Manalone had at first thought. The route his guide had chosen had presumably been designed to carry them clear of the end of the police penetration, but this was now seen to be an impractical approach. Finally the fellow stopped and shook his head.

‘This is bad! They’ve never covered the raft from end to end before. Whatever fish they’re after, it must be a big one.’

He looked
at Manalone curiously, wondering if the quiet stranger he was hustling from the raft could really be a major criminal. From his expression it appeared that the idea seemed doubtful. Nevertheless he shrugged.

‘We can’t get you off the easy way, so we’ll have to do it the hard way. Can you swim?’

Manalone nodded doubtfully. ‘Only a little.’

‘It’ll have to do.’

The guide then chose a new course which took them nearer to the shore, making for a specific point which he appeared to know well, and which he was anxious to reach before it was cut off by the police advance. The occupants of a particularly tumbledown shack showed no great surprise when Manalone and the guide forced their way through the door. They instantly divined the intention, and were probably prepared for it. Though not a word was spoken, they scrambled to draw back the sacking and rough mats from the floor and then to take away several pieces of planking. Beneath this was a hole. Deeper still, down in the near-darkness, evil waters rose and fell under the impetus of an insidious swell.

The guide turned to Manalone. ‘This is as far as I go. Down there’s your only chance. There’s continuous airspace in a corridor right through to the shore. All you have to do is follow the chains.’

Manalone viewed the prospect with considerable apprehension. Now he thought about it, the idea was obvious. Between the floating drums there was water, and between the water and the decking there was necessarily an airspace. The difficulties of using this as an escape route lay mainly in the haphazard disposition of the drums, which had almost nowhere been laid out in regular array. It was possible that here had been one of the limits of an earlier raft edge, and that a reasonably regular corridor existed through to the shore. Finding the theory, however, in no way increased Manalone’s enthusiasm for the proposal. He turned away, considering taking his chances with the police.

A police whistle sounding near, took the decision away from him. Several hands stripped the cloak from his back and threw it into the hole. Then he was lifted bodily and dropped in also. When he rose to the surface again, coughing the bitter, filthy water out of his throat, the hole in the decking had already been repaired, and in the dimness of the random light he could no longer even determine where it had been. Whether he lived or died was now a matter of importance only to himself. The occupants of the raft had achieved their object of removing possible trouble from their midst. The question of individual survival was something he must now secure for himself.

‘How
the hell did you get yourself talked into this situation, Manalone? Talk about an innocent abroad!’

Through random discontinuities in the decking a meagre amount of light penetrated to the surface of the water. As his eyes adapted to the grey dimness of the airspace he was relieved to be able to discern a rusty chain looped along a series of the heaving drums with which he was surrounded. He struck out and managed to grasp the chain at one of its lower points, and tried to estimate the prospects for survival. They were not good. The chain continued in both directions: one way would lead towards the shore, the other, to the open sea. There was no way in which he could now determine which was the right direction. He could only hope that he had not lost orientation when he had been flung into the water.

His best chance seemed to be to continue in the direction he was now facing. The water was cold but not unbearable, and if he had chosen his direction correctly, the total distance he had to go was not too formidable. Fortunately, divested of his cloak, his lightweight clothing was not an impediment, and he decided to retain even his shoes. He began to swim then, but carefully, catching the chain at every opportunity and resting as frequently as he could.

The journey seemed interminable. He had originally estimated his distance as being not more than a kilometre from the shore; but this, measured metre by metre in the dim world of the under-raft, was a spirit-sapping distance, and his spasmodic mode of swimming from handhold to handhold made his progress slow. The steady dimming of the available light warned him that evening was approaching and that speed was becoming of paramount importance. The journey was difficult enough in the uncertain dimness: in the darkness it could easily be fatal.

To add to
his troubles, the relatively clear run of the corridor of drums through which he swam soon became broken. Extra drums had been added in the corridor, and finally the pattern was completely gone and he was in a bewildering maze of heaving drums with frequently very little space to pass between. Trustingly he continued to follow the chain, but even this was becoming difficult because of the diminishing light and the increasing number of other chains and cables with which his route was becoming littered. A new factor which worried him also was the force of the damped waves, which drew strong currents to and fro between the tangle of drums, occasionally halting his progress then seizing him and thrusting him rapidly through apertures he would have preferred to negotiate more carefully.

He was sure now that he was approaching the beach, and he put his feet down experimentally. It was a joyful shock to find that he could stand quite easily with the water well below his shoulders. But this was not the end of his troubles. As yet he could still not see the beach through the random mass of drums ahead. The thrust of the waves became more forceful as the seafloor sloped upwards, yet the airspace remained a constant height above the water.

Soon he was forced to stoop to keep his head clear of the ragged decking, and in this position he was subjected to the full force of the ebb and flow of the damped waves. Frequently losing his handholds, he was flung bodily about in the underwater cavities and pressed mercilessly by the surging water into spaces between drums through which his body could not pass. Dazed and bruised, and bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, he grimly continued to fight his way through. The light was now totally gone but he had the assurance of the sloping beach beneath him to guide his feet. His main hazards were the chains and cables and submerged junk through which he had to fight his way by numbed touch alone.