Songs From Spider Street (3 page)

He steps into
the darkness of the finely decorated hallway, not daring to call out. If he is
challenged he decides to say he is lost and seeking directions or the use of a
telephone to call a taxi.

Room after
room is dark and empty until finally he comes to a large room at the back of
the house that seems to be half decorated, perhaps neglected part way through a
renovation scheme. It has the same odour as Kaltenbach’s office, but much
fainter. A small lamp sits on the floor near the far wall and he traces the
wire to a wall socket. Flicking it on, the light reveals an astonishing sight.

The wall is
scrawled across with images of Rorschach rot. Horses dance next to priapic
giants; animal innards are piled high on a collection of severed children’s
limbs as a deformed house begins to topple onto them; a disgraced saint’s hand
hangs from some elaborate railings; a king’s crown is beaten flat, ready to be
remade by an angry but conscientious jester. Damp has drawn this atlas of
disasters for his eyes alone, he seems to sense.

But could
Willets have seen these things, too? This, his endless fount of inspiration?

The odour of
absinthe seeps into his consciousness. It has been there since he entered the
room but now it seems stronger.

Looking
around he picks up the lamp and holds it higher. At the other end of the room
stands an ornate table laden with bottles. Green bottles. Absinthe.

He plays out
the wire as far as it will go until he can set the lamp down in the centre of
the room. Turning he gasps, noticing for the first time a woman dressed in
green standing behind the table.

He laughs
softly. “Sorry. You gave …” He stops, realising there is no-one there. A trick
of the light or rather the lack of it, he thinks. Not quite trusting his
senses, he circles the table several times, looking for some trace of her, but
finds nothing.

When he
eventually stops, Joseph looks down at the table. Nearly a dozen bottles of
absinthe stare up at him, all the same brand and identical to the one in
Kaltenbach’s office. Why so much, he wonders? You could do yourself some real
damage with that much.

He picks up
the nearest bottle to read the label and notices something odd about it.

He peers past
the distinctive blue and silver label into the glowing depths of the bottle.
There is something in the bottom, twisting slowly as he tips the bottle to the
light.

A worm, that’s
it. A worm? But isn’t it Mezcal that has a worm in the bottle? He brings the
bottle closer to his face.

Only the
table’s edge stops the bottle from hitting the floor and smashing.

He stoops to
look again as the bottle rolls to a halt against its companions. He hardly
draws breath as he fears to see what he knows is there.

The
distinctive bearded face of Willets, reproduced perfectly in hideous miniature,
gazes absently at him from the sticky green depths.

He gasps,
scuttling back. Willets was in the bottle. That’s where he was. Shrunken.
Drowned.

His mind,
turning towards the safety of the shadows, wants to disbelieve the impossible.
Shuffling round to the side of the table, he stretches out his hand and gently
lifts another bottle. Barely holding its encrusted top between his thumb and
forefinger, he lifts it up to the light. A tiny feminine figure drifts face
down in the enclosed emerald current, dead green eyes dreaming through a sunken
cavern of green flames.

Placing the
bottle gently down, praying that he doesn’t disturb the perfect little figure
floating within, he moves along the row.

Here he is.
The object of his pursuit. Old man Kaltenbach sunk at the very bottom of the
bottle. A soft smile sitting on his lips, his eyes hidden behind his filthy
lenses.

In turn each
bottle reveals its secret. Each holds a tiny, dead figure that he does not
recognise in its liquid embrace.

Except one.
The end bottle stands apart from the others, untenanted. Waiting.

And, just
beyond the door, those voices come again.

They have been standing on the ice for nearly half a day now. Watching
me. I can just make them out through the frozen window that I have scraped
away. The old man finally turns and begins to walk towards the huge gate cut
into the wall of ice. The others, in deference, turn their gaze from me and
follow him.

Perhaps they
stayed to ensure that I did not try to break through the massive plug of ice
that sealed the horse’s anus, shutting me inside. One carried a rifle; a
needless precaution. I would hardly have had the strength, not after what I’ve
been through.

I do not know
when they will be back, when my release will come. Nobody would tell me.
Perhaps nobody could.

A giant horse made from ice. Only one mind could have conceived of so
bizarre a place of incarceration; Usko CeKaracal. Old though he now is, his
mind is still unmatched.

Eventually the pain will go. I’ve heard tell that numbness creeps into
every limb after a while. I can’t let that happen; soon after that my end will
come. That’s not what I’m here for. I must stay alive to get out of here, to
find my family.

I remember hearing of CeKaracal when I was young; he must have been old
even then. His Palace of Songs and Sighs was celebrated by everyone and always
swamped with sightseers … if that’s the right word for for something that
appeals only to the ears.

And I had a
print of the sumptuous marble submersible - the perfect meeting of art and
engineering that he created for King Meriette. There were suspicions that the
railgun-armed dirigibles that sank the sub on its maiden voyage were also designed
by the old man; the King’s troublesome niece had been on board and everyone
knew she wanted to rid herself of any possible challenge to her throne. There
were no survivors, of course.

When they came that night, and I saw my wife and sons for the last time
as they were taken away, I remember thinking that perhaps I was responsible for
all this. The crack of the gun butt on the back of my head came as a small
mercy; a door through which to escape the unbearable, at least for a while.
When I woke they showed me pictures of Suvi, my wife. I don’t believe they were
real; I can’t.

The sun is high and bright, magnified a hundredfold through the
cathedral-high walls of the animal’s rib cage. Small rivulets trickle down here
and there from high up. My eyes water with the pain of looking. I ball my hands
up and stuff them into my eyes, rubbing away the tears that I am afraid will
freeze painfully on my already ruined skin. The orbiting furnace is too far
away to thaw me or revive me. What I need is food to feed my own furnace. When
will they come?

The cold has
dug its way into me. My senses, far from being numbed, ring like huge bells;
each vibration tears through me and takes my breath with it as it leaves. I don’t
know how long I can endure this. It is as though the cold senses what damage it
is doing to me and rejoices in it. Perhaps, I sometimes think, the horse is
more than just a giant sculpture, a perverse prison. Perhaps, I often feel, it
lives and thinks and drives me deliberately, but too slowly and cruelly,
towards madness. How could I have thought I would escape? My cold, mad heart
has trapped me.

In the
winding galleries of the great gut of the horse I finally find food. On a
raised table of ice sits a small selection of fruits, there by the beneficence
of my captors. They are all rock hard, of course, but if I hold them under my
clothes long enough they should be edible. I can barely afford to sacrifice the
warmth but what choice do I have? I have to eat.

The great artist’s ascendancy only suffered once; when his grand
masterpiece ‘Arced Angels’, a pair of intersecting tunnels of water in the sky,
collapsed, taking nearly 40 visiting dignitaries to their death in the cold
waters below. Again, no survivors. Not even CeKaracal’s decade-long exile could
erase the shame or the memory.

The legal proceedings, such as they appeared to be, were conducted in the
ancient form of the language that barely anyone now understands. My translator
– appointed by the court on my behalf, of course – failed to follow the
proceedings adequately. Things escaped her, and thus me. I still do not know
what words the judicial arbiter used to sum up my situation. I have no idea
exactly why I am here … or for how long.

The sky has
grown dark outside the thick ice ribs of the enormous body. More snow on the
way. Frost to dress my incarceration in white.

I have spent
most of my life in one cage or another and now I am in the most elaborate one
of all; one designed by a genius.

Sleep comes in sharp slices, empty of any real rest. And the dreams it
contains are windswept and bleak. But one held the faint forgotten scent of
hope; an escape. I kneel and my hands and knees melt through the gonads of the
horse. I exit through the raining ruins of its penis, falling but not falling
towards the ice below. The air is sharp and cutting but at the same time it
holds me, letting me safely down to the ground. At last I am there and I begin
to stand. But the heat that was my saviour now holds me in a trap of ice that
melts beneath me, only to freeze at once in the extreme cold. By the time I am
up to my thighs in the frozen mantrap I am awake, shaking from cold and fear.

The wind
sighs and murmurs through the great device. Occasionally there are voices mixed
in with the random aeolian tones. They may be human but their message is not.

CeKaracal comes here each year, they say, to ‘revisit’ and ‘redefine’ the
gargantuan piece; they do say that art is a process and not a thing. Are the
bones embedded deep inside the ice a vital part of the work or just his idea of
a joke? If so, perhaps great artists don’t have much of a sense of humour.

My family are all I can think of. When will I be free of this place, to
go to them again? Sometimes I see my youngest son’s face deep in the ice,
frozen and dead, under a mask of blood. Sometimes I feel that this place is
carved out of my own fear and guilt, not ice at all.

My sketchy knowledge of equine anatomy has aided my progress. I assume
that CeKaracal has created an anatomically accurate animal; it is certainly
very intricate. Gods alone know how he did it.

Progress up
the horse’s throat has been agonising. Someone has cut some rudimentary steps,
as smooth as glass. Another of the artist’s small sadisms? Purchase is nearly
impossible and I have had to flail for handholds to steady myself; I fear that
a fall will break my bones and I will be stuck in here for good.

My wife screams at me through the swirling flakes. I cannot hear her
accusations but I know it has something to do with pride; it always has. Suvi
has always said the same thing about me. But without pride, what is there?
Survival is not enough. Is it?

The horse’s enormous teeth are clamped shut in a silent, frozen
whinnying. No way out there. And, once outside, what then? A drop of some
hundred feet to the white surface below; a dozen or more shattered bones and a
long agony before the cold claims me finally. There is no escape. I must simply
be patient.

My sense of
time has become a nonsense now. But my stomach tells me it must be at least
three days. Despite the small amount of food I found, hunger has caught up with
me. Only the cruellest of jailers would treat their prisoner like this.

My fingers
have begun to lose sensation. They are becoming a bruised blue beneath the
skin.

I have struggled up into the cranial cavity of the beast. The brain pan
is empty. Of course. The great artist is making some sort of statement, no
doubt. What was I expecting? A great artistic revelation; an undeserved
epiphany; the key to my own freedom. No.

As I sit
here, my own brain burns as if it could sear its way free of its fleshly
moorings and soar away of its own accord, leaving my body behind as the useless
lump of meat it has always been. My mind has always been my betrayer, my body
always suffering on its behalf.

My heartbeat feels slower. Pictures form in my breath as it streams out
in white clouds from my mouth, like small swirls of soul escaping from within.
My oldest son condemning me and then pleading with me; my wife running from
something unseen.

Only now, as
my body begins to fail, does my mind begin to work properly. I dig my fingers
through the thick layer of frost inside the rim of the giant horse’s nostrils,
filling both hands. I now fully appreciate CeKaracal’s genius; not as a
sculptor, nor as a jailer, but as an executioner. I will become a part of his
masterpiece; another small accretion in an endless work-in-progress.

Now I
understand that I will never be released. I will end my days as a single chill
thought in the coldest mind in the universe.

He was awake again and there was a salty tang on his tongue. He couldn’t
remember how long he’d been here. Four days, maybe five at most. But he’d be
leaving today. Of that he was sure.

He cranked
down the driver’s window to get some fresh air. The sky was light grey, as
usual, and he could see the spray off the tops of the even greyer waves rise
above the sea wall, just five yards in front of where he was parked.

Getting out
of the car, he stretched painfully before pulling his jacket lapels close about
his throat in a futile attempt to keep out the cold.

He guessed he
was somewhere up North. The gritty wind that never seemed to stop blowing had
the breath of distant ice in it.

The landscape
was flat. The car park that he was in led to a corniche road, which in turn led
to a short headland, obviously man-made, that jutted out into the sea. There
was a windmill at the end of this artificial spit of land but he could see
nothing nearby to which it could be providing power.

To the rear
of the car park, across another stretch of water, a road was visible. There was
very little traffic. Most of the time it was empty, but a black car drove along
it every so often; sometimes left to right, other times the opposite way. It
was too far away for him to see the drivers’ faces, so waving would be futile.

He’d tried
and failed to find a way to get to the road. He’d even considered climbing down
to the water’s edge and swimming across the canal that separated him from it.
But he knew the cold would prevent him from reaching the far side.

He drove fast along the corniche road, heading for somewhere. Anywhere.
Not here. After 10 minutes he slowed and pulled up at the end of the road.
Literally. There was just a pile of rocks, huge ones, tumbling down into the
grey waters.

Had he driven
this way before? He didn’t think so. He switched off the engine and leaned
forward on the steering wheel. Far out at sea a ship made its way across the
horizon. He wished he was on board. It was just a container ship, by the looks
of it. Nothing special. But at least if he was on board he wouldn’t be here.

The rear view
mirror showed him that he was badly in need of a shave. His face was starting
to get caveman-shaggy around the edges. But he didn’t have a razor, or hot
water, or anything else you needed to maintain a smooth and socially-acceptable
complexion - if there was anyone to socialise with, of course.

His clothes
were beginning to stink and they felt uncomfortable and moist. He clicked open
the glove compartment and grabbed the can of deodorant he kept there for
emergencies. It was nearly empty. He risked a few quick squirts - one under
each arm and a general one inside his shirt. Far from masking the smell, it
merely mingled with it, giving it an artificial, chemical tang.

He was
starting to itch.

He remembered clearly what he’d said to her. “You can’t stop me. It’s my
money, too. At least half of it is mine.”

She’d pushed
her face towards him and, at that moment, it had seemed uglier than ever. When
she spoke it was more of a throaty hiss than her normal voice. “I’m not letting
you have it just so you can spend it on that tart!”

That final
word had enraged him and he’d lashed out, harder than he’d meant to. Or maybe
he’d felt she deserved it.

She fell
against the kitchen table with a low grunt before hitting the floor with a loud
slap. She lay on her back and didn’t move.

He leaned
over her and looked down into her eyes. “Hey, c’mon.” He slapped her face. She
made a strange noise in the back of her throat. He stepped away, got a cloth
and soaked it in cold water. He began to dab her brow with it but then stood up
quickly when he saw the blood.

Her face
reminded him of something you see on a fishmonger’s slab, staring up at you
even though it can no longer see you. One or two strands of hair, that had been
tucked imperfectly behind her left ear, began to float in the pool of blood
that grew under her head.

An odd blend
of fear and boredom twisted through his thoughts. “There’s nothing more to see
here. She’s stopped moving,” said the sick spectator in his head. “On to the
next shallow thrill, my boy!”

He was sure
he’d left the door unlocked as he left. He remembered worrying about it as his
tyres screeched, complaining that he’d accelerated away too fast. But he knew
he couldn’t go back to check.

There were four roads leading out of the car park. One led to a short
headland, two led to dead ends overlooking the sea, but he was sure he hadn’t
driven down the fourth one, though he couldn’t think why. It seemed to be the
most promising as it led away from the sea.

He slipped
into second gear and headed away as fast as he could. To the right was a steep
earth bank covered with impenetrable, overgrown vegetation, to the other side
lay the sea.

The road
began to rise and curve around. This was more like it. Now he was getting
somewhere, he felt. Why he hadn’t tried this road on the previous days, he
couldn’t think. Something in the back of his head nagged at him; maybe it hadn’t
been there on any of the previous days.

He swore at
himself, telling his reflection in the rear view mirror that he must be losing
his marbles. He laughed at himself, feeling reassured.

This was
great, he thought. The sense of movement lifted his spirits and he decided
that, if push came to shove, he’d sooner drive forever than just sit in a car
park. Cars were made to move and so was he.

Now the road
was descending again and curving the other way. He craned his head to try and
see around the corner, expecting to see a roundabout or a junction.

The sea
peeped from behind the overgrowth at the roadside and the road began to flatten
out. The vegetation came to an end and a depressingly familiar car park came
into view.

He drove the
last few dozen yards and parked about 15 feet back from the sea wall.  He got
out and looked around at the four exit roads and the short headland with the
windmill.

He shook his
head and laughed again

At first he
thought it was merely a near-identical car park to the one he’d just left, but
then he spotted something in one corner. He walked over and examined the pile
of debris – discarded cigarette ends, an empty Marlboro packet and a
crumpled-up soft drink can – and realised with despair that he’d dumped it
there only yesterday.

The lorry. He remembered now, it had backed into him. Or he’d run into
the back of it. It happened so fast, he couldn’t recall all the details
properly.

It was only a
few minutes after he’d run out of the house, leaving her lying on the floor.

He could
still see an arc of diamonds fly towards him as the windscreen caved in,
stinging his face as they cut into his flesh. And he’d felt the blinding pain
as his legs were crushed by the front of the car as it crumpled under the force
of the collision.

He breathed
deeply. Then he ran his hands over his face. No scars, no marks; the rear-view
mirror hadn’t been lying.

He opened the
door and stepped out of the car, with no complaints from the legs he’d felt
being crushed. He looked down at the pristine paintwork and the smooth bodywork
of the car, its distinctive badge still firmly in place.

But it wasn’t
the sort of thing you imagine. You couldn’t possibly; there was too much pain,
too many small details that you wouldn’t know about unless you’d been through
it. The smell of the engine spraying hot gases into the passenger compartment
as it was suddenly shattered, the desperate and sudden need to urinate.

But if he
hadn’t imagined it or dreamed it …?

He looked around
at the grey horizon stretching itself out and wondered where he was and how he’d
got there. “Where the hell am I?” he asked himself.

He was awake again and there was a salty tang on his tongue. He couldn’t
remember how long he’d been here. Four days, maybe five at most. But he’d be
leaving today. Of that he was sure ...