Weaveworld (17 page)

‘We have to go to her,’ he said. ‘Christ! Why didn’t I think?’

His agitation was infectious. Suzanna blew out the candles, and was at the front door before him.

‘Surely Mimi’ll be safe in a hospital,’ she said.

‘Nobody’s safe,’ he replied, and she knew it was true.

On the step, she about-faced and disappeared into the house again, returning seconds later with a battered book in her hands.

‘Diary?’ he said.

‘Map,’ she replied.

VIII

FOLLOWING THE THREAD

1

imi was dead.

Her killers had come and gone in the night, leaving an elaborate smoke-screen to conceal their crime.

There’s nothing mysterious about your grandmother’s death.’ Doctor Chai insisted. ‘She was failing fast.’

‘There was somebody here last night.’

‘That’s right. Her daughter.’

‘She only had one daughter; my mother. And she’s been dead for two and a half years.’

‘Whoever it was, she did Mrs Laschenski no harm. Your grandmother died of natural causes.’

There was little use in arguing, Suzanna realized. Any further attempt to explain her suspicions would end in confusion. Besides, Mimi’s death had begun a new spiral of puzzles. Chief amongst them: what had the old woman known, or been, that she had to be dispatched?; and how much of her part in this puzzle would Suzanna now be obliged to assume? One question begged the other, and both, with Mimi silenced, would have to go unanswered. The only other source of information was the creature who’d stooped to kill the old woman on her death-bed: Immacolata. And that was a confrontation Suzanna felt far from ready for.

They left the hospital, and walked. She was badly shaken.

‘Shall we eat?’ Cal suggested.

It was still only seven in the morning, but they found a cafe
that served breakfast and ordered glutton’s portions. The eggs and bacon, toast and coffee restored them both somewhat, though the price of a sleepless night still had to be paid.

‘I’ll have to ‘phone my uncle in Canada,’ said Suzanna. Tell him what happened.’

‘All of it?’ said Cal.

‘Of course not,’ she said. That’s between the two of us.’

He was glad of that. Not just because he didn’t like the thought of the story spreading, but because he wanted the intimacy of a secret shared. This Suzanna was like no woman he had ever met before. There was no facade, no games-playing. They were, in one night of confessionals – and this sad morning – suddenly companions in a mystery which, though it had brought him closer to death than he’d ever been, he’d happily endure if it meant he kept her company.

‘There won’t be many tears shed over Mimi,’ Suzanna was saying. ‘She was never loved.’

‘Not even by you?’

‘I never knew her,’ she said, and gave Cal a brief synopsis of Mimi’s life and times. ‘She was an outsider,’ Suzanna concluded. ‘And now we know why.’

‘Which brings us back to the carpet. We have to trace the house cleaners.’

‘You need some sleep first.’

‘No. I’ve got my second wind. But I do want to go home. Just to feed the pigeons.’

‘Can’t they survive without you for a few hours?’

Cal frowned. ‘If it weren’t for them,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’

‘Sorry. Do you mind if I come with you?’

‘I’d like that. Maybe you can give Dad something to smile about.’

2

As it was, Brendan had smiles aplenty today; Cal had not seen his father so happy since before Eileen’s illness. The change was uncanny. He welcomed them both into the house with a stream of banter.

‘Coffee, anybody?’ he offered, and went off into the kitchen. ‘By the way Cal, Geraldine was here.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She brought some books you’d given her; said she didn’t want them any longer.’ He turned from the coffee-brewing and stared at Cal. ‘She said you’ve been behaving oddly.’

‘Must be in the blood,’ said Cal, and his father grinned. ‘I’m going to look at the birds.’

‘I’ve already fed them today. And cleaned them out.’

‘You’re really feeling better.’

‘Why not?’ said Brendan. ‘I’ve got people watching over me.’

Cal nodded, not quite comprehending. Then he turned to Suzanna.

‘Want to see the champions?’ he said, and they stepped outside. The day was already balmy.

‘There’s something off about Dad,’ said Cal, as he led the way down the clogged path to the loft. Two days ago he was practically suicidal.’

‘Maybe the bad times have just run their course,’ she said.

‘Maybe,’ he replied, as he opened the loft door. As he did so, a train roared by, making the earth tremble.

‘Nine-twenty-five to Penzance,’ Cal said, as he led her inside.

‘Doesn’t it disturb the birds?’ she asked. ‘Being so close to the tracks?’

‘They got used to it when they were still in their shells,’ he replied, and went to greet the pigeons.

She watched him talking to them, paddling his fingers against the wire mesh. He was a strange one, no doubt of that; but no stranger than she, probably. What surprised her was
the casual way they dealt with the imponderables which had suddenly entered their lives. They stood, she sensed, on a threshold; in the realm beyond a little strangeness might be a necessity.

Cal suddenly turned from the cage.

‘Gilchrist.’
he said, with a fierce grin. ‘I just remembered. They talked about a guy called Gilchrist.’

‘Who did?’

‘When I was on the wall. The removal men. God, yes! I looked at the birds and it all came back. I was on the wall and they were talking about selling the carpet to someone called
Gilchrist.’

‘That’s our man then.’

Cal was back in the house in moments.

‘I don’t have any cake –’ Brendan said as his son made for the telephone in the hallway. ‘What’s the panic?’

‘It’s nothing much,’ said Suzanna.

Brendan poured her a cup of coffee, while Cal rifled through the directory. ‘You’re not a local lass, are you?’ Brendan said.

‘I live in London.’

‘Never liked London,’ he commented. ‘Soulless place.’

‘I’ve got a studio in Muswell Hill. You’d like it.’ When Brendan looked puzzled at this, she added: ‘I make pottery.’

‘I’ve found it,’ said Cal, directory in hand.
‘K. W. Gilchrist,’
he read,
‘ Second-Hand Retailer.’

‘What’s all this about?’ said Brendan.

‘I’ll give them a call,’ Cal said.

‘It’s Sunday,’ said Suzanna.

‘Lot of these places are open Sunday morning,’ he replied, and returned to the hallway.

‘Are you buying something?’ Brendan said.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Suzanna replied.

Cal dialled the number. The receiver at the other end was picked up promptly. A woman said:

‘Gilchrist’s?’

‘Hello,’ said Cal. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Gilchrist please.’

There was a beat’s silence, then the woman said:

‘Mr Gilchrist’s dead.’

Jesus, Shadwell was fast. Cal thought.

But the telephonist hadn’t finished:

‘He’s been dead eight years,’ she said. Her voice had less colour than the speaking clock. ‘What’s your enquiry concerning?”

‘A carpet,’ said Cal.

‘You want to buy a carpet?’

‘No. Not exactly. I think a carpet was brought to your saleroom by mistake – ’

‘By
mistake?’

‘That’s right. And I have to have it back. Urgently.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to Mr Wilde about that.’

‘Could you put me through to Mr Wilde then, please?’

‘He’s in the Isle of Wight.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Thursday morning. You’ll have to ring back then.’

‘Surely that must be –’

He stopped, realizing the line was dead.

‘Damn,’ he said. He looked up too see Suzanna standing at the kitchen door. ‘Nobody there to talk to.’ He sighed. ‘Where does that leave us?’

‘Like thieves in the night,’ she replied softly.

3

When Cal and the woman had gone, Brendan sat awhile watching the garden. He’d have to get to work on it soon: Eileen’s letter had chastized him for being so lax in its upkeep.

Musing on the letter inevitably led him back to its carrier, the celestial Mr Shadwell.

Without analysing why, he got up and went to the ‘phone, consulting the card the angel had given him, then dialled. His memory of the encounter with Shadwell had almost been burned away by the brightness of the gift the Salesman had brought, but there’d been a bargain made, that he
did
remember, and it somehow concerned Cal.

‘Is that Mr Shadwell?’

‘Who is this please?’

‘It’s Brendan Mooney.’

‘Oh Brendan. How good to hear your voice. Do you have something to tell me? About Cal?’

‘He went to a warehouse, for furniture and such …’

‘Did he indeed. Then we shall find him, and make him a happy man. Was he alone?’

‘No. There was a woman with him. A lovely woman.’

‘Her name?’

‘Suzanna Parrish.’

‘And the warehouse?’

A vague twinge of doubt touched Brendan. ‘Why is it you need Cal?’

‘I told you. A prize.’

‘Oh yes. A prize.’

‘Something to take his breath away. The warehouse, Brendan. We have a deal, after all. Fair’s fair.’

Brendan put his hand into his pocket. The letter was still warm. There was no harm in making bargains with angels, was there? What could be safer?

He named the warehouse.

‘They only went for a carpet –’ Brendan said.

The receiver clicked.

‘Are you still there?’ he said.

But the divine messenger was probably already winging his way.

IX

FINDERS KEEPERS

1

ilchrist’s Second-Hand Furniture Warehouse had once been a cinema, in the years when cinemas were still palatial follies. A folly it remained, with its mock-rococo facade, and the unlikely dome perched on its roof; but there was nothing remotely palatial about it now. It stood within a stone’s throw of the Dock Road, the only property left in its block that remained in use. The rest were either boarded up or burned out.