The Cutting Crew (29 page)

I walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, and then picked up a few sheets of paper at random and started to look through them.

There were a lot of photographs. Some of them had been clipped out of magazines, newspapers and journals, and then stuck to sheets of paper; others were original and loose. As I flipped through it all, there didn't seem to be any obvious connections, but gradually a pattern of some kind began to emerge. Most of the pictures were crowd scenes, often with some insignificant object or person at the front, but I began to realise that what was interesting Sean was the background. Away from the focus, the shots became hazy and often indistinct, but the black circles he'd made in biro made it easy enough to spot recurring figures. He'd highlighted the same blurry faces, and they were usually lingering at the backs of crowds as someone more important smiled for the camera in the foreground.

So who were they? The pictures were too out of focus to see much detail, apart from the fact that all of the men looked old. One of them, he'd marked with a red cross beside a letter 'E'; another, with a 'K'. I stared at each photograph in turn and then placed them back on the floor.

One particular photograph caught my eye. Sean had clearly found this one in a book and then enlarged it on a computer, printing out progressive zooms. The initial black and white photograph showed an old boxing match from the city's annual competition: two fighters in the ring at the centre, thousands of people crowding the main square. The lack of colour robbed the scene of its heat and noise, and the stillness - as with all such photographs - froze the banners and the waves, the streamers thrown into the air. The fighters looked poised, a little apart from each other, both caught in the act of throwing a punch. But Sean hadn't been interested in them. Instead, he'd enlarged a portion of one building on the opposite side of the square: zooming in past the lower balconies and windows that were crammed with people, and focusing on a single balcony three floors up. It, too, was full, but here the people seemed to be sitting quietly and neatly, and they were dressed to the nines, as though they were watching an opera in the rich box at the theatre.

The angle was slightly awkward, and this close up most of the detail was lost, but it seemed both possible and likely that the five men I could see, before a pillar obscured the rest of the group, were the same men who appeared, individually, in the other photographs.

Who had Sean been researching? I wondered.

The photographs he had taken himself raised further questions.

A number of them had been shot from a window in one of the front bedrooms of this hotel: they showed the bar opposite. Five of them depicted groups of people either arriving or leaving. The times of day varied, as did the people, but a few of the faces persisted. One of them was an old man wrapped in the cocoon of a black coat, and he always came flanked by three men who were large and ugly enough to scare away bullets. In fact, their blank faces looked kind of resigned to that task. A couple of other men cropped up in more than one photo, as well, and I got the impression they were business people of some kind. But the old man himself was obviously the focus of it all. I compared the clearest photograph I had of him with the enhanced shot of the balcony, and there he was. It wouldn't hold up in a court of law, but the similarity would do for me. I checked through the other pictures and found the one marked with an 'E'. That one was even less distinct, but again, I would have put money on it being the same man.

I left these photographs to one side.

A lot of the rest of the papers were photocopies and printouts, and there was also a book filled with idle scribblings. Sean had written pages and pages of mad, scrawling notes, most of which were hard to make out. Some words were circled and linked - he had tied 'arterial' to 'streets' more than once - and although much of the text was difficult to read, the little I did manage to scan through was reminiscent of the conversations we'd often had, only far more extreme. I could only make out odd words and phrases.

The city was alive, he was saying. The city was a living, breathing creature. On one page, he was rambling about cancers and tumours, and it took a minute for me to realise that he was writing about Rosh and Lucy and us. In some places, paragraphs had been scribbled out in fury; in others, Sean had torn out whole sections. It didn't make it any easier to follow.

There were occasional illustrations, as well. He'd drawn maps that didn't make any sense to me: a diagram of a circle with parallel lines inside it that looked like it should mean something and didn't. I put it to one side. There was too much to take in mad, drifting thoughts that had clearly occurred to him a little too quickly for him to write down clearly. The writing and drawings showed fragments of ideas, but each one seemed to shift to something new before it was finished, and the links in between were all missing. It was delirious.

I started leafing through a few of the books that were piled up at the head of the bed.

The subject matter was varied, and not all of it seemed to have much to do with anything. It was possible that he'd been reading up on the philosophy of language for personal amusement, but scanning a few pages convinced me that he must have been exceedingly bored if he had been. There were a few religious books. A handful of old novels. But what caught my eye most was a thick volume entitled City Legends: East and West. Sean had clearly consulted this a great deal, as there were bits of sticky paper emerging at various points throughout. I flicked through.

The book listed local and regional myths about cities around the world, some traditional and familiar - Sean had left a marker on the chapter devoted to Rome and its wolf children - whereas others were strange and new. Some of them were exotic places I'd never even heard of. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the handful that Sean had chosen to label.

Except for one. Close to the middle, I found an entry for our city.

Beneath the title, it listed the author as Dr Mark Harris.

I stared at that for a moment, wondering what to think about it.

Jamie said that Harris had been helping them with their project, and it was, after all, his area of expertise. And yet there was something about seeing his name in print that made me want to throw the book to one side and get out of there as fast as I could.

But I didn't. The article was only a page and a half long. I noticed that Sean had torn away the bottom of the first side for some reason - perhaps he'd taken it with him for reference.

I leaned forward on the mattress, shining the torch carefully onto the open book. Suddenly, I experienced another lurch of nausea, and I looked around quickly for my gun. There - it was on the bed beside me. Within easy reach.

But that didn't make me feel any better. It was as though a ghost had just walked into the room and was now standing there, staring at me with wide eyes. The ringing of silence in my ears was bouncing off the walls, intensifying and becoming louder: building to a pitch that would cause my nerves to snap.

Calm down.

And after a moment of breathing slowly, I turned my attention to the book and began to read of our history.

It is not my purpose in this article to draw out the similarities between the myth of the eight brothers and comparable stories in other civilisations and cultures. Suffice to say that there are several key elements that recur; and it may be argued (see Williams, 96; Deacon, 98) that these, along with the timeless and obvious symbolic nature of the story (see Duncan, 91), are enough to qualify the tale purely as a 'myth'. However, it has a number of qualities that support its classification as a 'legend', most notably the general presentation of the story as historical (albeit timeless) fact and the lack of a purely religious element. See the section marked 'further reading' for links to relevant articles.

The basic tenets of the myth are as follows.

At an unspecified time, there were eight brothers living on a very large estate. Their names were Eli, Kama, Gideon, Napier, Voldun, Sanzer, Harven and Rho. In general readings of the tale, they are presented as self-sufficient, beyond the small number of servants that each brother employed; and the estate is reckoned to have contained everything needed for the family to survive: running water; woodland teeming with animals and plants; fields that could be farmed; vast natural resources;
etc.
They lived in happiness for some time, and certain specific comparisons may be made to Eden and other allegorical paradises. Additionally, the introduction of an 'outside' element that unbalances the harmony and leads ultimately to destruction is a common theme in this literature (Smart, 82). In this case, it occurred when the eight brothers decided it was time to venture into the outside world and find a wife, each riding in a different direction of the compass. It may be argued (see Roseneil, 71) that linking the arrival of women onto the estate with its downfall adds a historically revealing subtext to the myth; but this is refuted by a careful reading of certain sources. When all of the brothers returned with their new wives and families two years later, they each also brought specialist knowledge and experience back with them.

From this point, each brother took on a symbolic role, and it is their subsequent interaction that caused the estate to dissolve.

In most versions of the myth, Gideon is seen as having spent time with traders in the west, returning with elaborate plans to export the brothers' bountiful natural resources and produce in exchange for worldly wealth. Napier learned from the scientists of the day, and began automating the farms: constructing a waterwheel and experimenting with steam machinery. Voldun brought back musical instruments from the south. Sanzer had acquired a thirst for knowledge and debate, and took on the role of teacher to the estate's growing number of children. Eli, who had spent time in the rigid cities of the north, took control of security for the community; while Harven, who had studied medicine and chemistry, looked after their health.

Thus we can see that each of these six brothers embodies an important element of a successful society. (Respectively: finance; power and technology; the arts; education; law and order; and medicine). For some time, the estate continued to thrive, with its population growing around this central disciplined core.

Of the other two brothers, Rho brought back no particular skills or trade, and is seen as representing (variously) life, death, religion, fate and chance. However, all sources agree that the blame for the eventual dissolution of the estate lay with Kama, who had spent time in the ports and harbours of the west, 'consorting with thieves, pirates and blackhearts' (see Williams, 96); and over time, it became apparent that he had returned to his family bearing many undesirable traits. Kama would come to symbolise crime and anarchy. Over a long period, he worked secretly in opposition to his brothers, undermining Gideon's dealings with outside traders while making his own business arrangements with less savoury clients. Eventually, his actions would destroy the founding family.

Then there was a break in the text where Sean had ripped away the bottom of the page. It continued at the top of the other side: In modern times, the brothers are seen as patron figureheads controlling the various aspects of life in the city as listed above.

An alleged representation of Eli can be seen on the crest of the Gaunes Knight at the law courts in the district of Owl; and the city's main hospital is colloquially referred to by locals as 'Harven's'. (A likeness of him is also rumoured to be included in the building's famous hanging tapestry.) Other examples abound (see further reading) but the most obvious is the partitioned nature of the city, which is divided into sixteen districts. Once a year, a competition is held wherein eight districts compete in a city-sponsored event, and this author would suggest that the sport and the legend share similar origins.

By the time I finished reading, my hands were literally shaking. I had no idea why - I actually looked down and stared at them, willing them to stop. What was wrong with me? It was just a book, and yet I felt like I was going to be sick. The feeling was far worse now than it had been all day - even in Hedge's flat when I'd been looking at the computer program.

The image of the city map flashed into my mind; the room started whirling around me. I closed my eyes, resting my head on my knees.

Stop, I thought. Please stop.

'Feeling ill?'

I opened my eyes and jumped up off the mattress, picking up the gun and bringing it to bear on an empty room. Flicked it this way and that. The torch fell on its side, spilling light across the floor.

Somebody laughed. My aim shifted round to a blank wall.

'Who's that?' I said, stepping back onto the mattress and leaning against the corner of the room. Even though it was dark, I could see everywhere. There was nobody here.

Out in the corridor? I moved my aim to the doorway.

The voice had sounded closer than that, though - it had been right in my ear. Deep, male and amused.