Weaveworld (53 page)

‘I know your face,’ he said.

‘Really?’ she said, trying for light flirtatiousness, and missing by a mile.

‘What’s your name?’

Before she had time to lie, one of the officers up ahead called
to her interrogator. He stood up, giving her an opportunity to glance back in Cal’s direction. He was standing on the edge of the pavement, staring across at the car. She made a small shake of her head, hoping he’d read her signal through the rain-blurred window. The officer caught her warning.

‘Something wrong?’ he said.

‘No,’ she told him. ‘Not at all.’

Another of the officers was approaching the car, shouting something over the din of rain and idling engines. The longer I stay here, she thought, the worse this is going to get; and she wrenched the wheel round. The officer at the window yelled for her to stop, but the die was cast. As the car bolted forward she chanced the briefest of glances in Cal’s direction. She saw to her distress that he was engaged in trying to wind his way between the cars. Though she shouted his name, he was oblivious to her. She shouted again. Too late, he looked up; the officer in the front was running towards the car. He’d reached it before Cal was half way across the road. She had no choice but to make her escape, while she still had a prayer.

She accelerated, the officer in front of her throwing himself out of her path with inches to spare. There was no time to look back for Cal; she skirted the collision site at speed, hoping he’d used the diversion to pick up his heels and run.

She’d travelled no more than four hundred yards when she heard the sound of sirens rising behind her.

4

It took Cal half a dozen seconds to work out what had happened, and another two to curse his sloth. There was a moment of confusion, when none of the officers seemed certain whether to wait for instructions or give chase, during which pause Suzanna was away around the corner.

The officer who’d been at the car window instantly made his way in Cal’s direction, his pace picking up with every step.

Cal pretended he hadn’t seen the man, and began to walk
speedily back up towards the monument. There was a shouted summons, and then the sound of pursuit. He ran, not looking behind him. His pursuer was heavily dressed against the rain; Cal was much lighter footed. He made a left into Lower Castle Street, and another onto Brunswick Street, then a right onto Drury Lane. The sirens had begun by now; the bikes were in pursuit of Suzanna.

On Water Street he chanced a backward glance. His pursuer was not in sight. He didn’t slow his pace, however, until he’d put half a mile between himself and the police. Then he hailed himself a taxi and headed back to the house, his head full of questions, and of Suzanna’s face. She’d come and gone too quickly; already he was mourning her absence.

In order to better hold onto her memory, he fumbled for the names she’d spoken; but damn it, they were gone already.

VII

LOST CAUSES

1

he blinding rain proved to be Suzanna’s ally; so, perhaps, did her ignorance of the city. She took every turn she could, only avoiding cul-de-sacs, and the lack of any rationale in her escape route seemed to flummox her pursuers. Her path brought her out into Upper Parliament Street; at which point she put on some speed. The sirens faded behind her.

But it would not be for long, she knew. The noose was tightening once more.

There were breaks in the rain-bellied clouds as she drove from the dry, and shafts of sun found their way between, leaving a sheen of gold on roof and tarmac. But for moments only. Then the clouds sealed their wound, and the benediction ceased.

She drove and drove, as the afternoon grew late, and once more she was alone.

2

Cal stood at the kitchen door. Geraldine – who was peeling an onion – looked up and said:

‘Did you forget your umbrella?’

And he thought: she doesn’t know who I am or what I am,
and how could she?, because God in Heaven I don’t know either. I forget myself. Oh Jesus, why do I forget myself?

‘Are you all right?’ she was asking him, putting down the onion and the knife now and crossing the kitchen towards him. ‘Look at you. You’re soaked.’

‘I’m in trouble,’ he said flatly.

She stopped in her tracks. ‘What, Cal?’

‘I think the police may come here looking for me.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask. It’s too complicated.’

Her face tightened a little.

‘There was a woman on the ‘phone this afternoon,’ she said, ‘asking for your work number. Did she get through to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is she something to do with this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, Cal.’

‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Are you having a fling with this woman?’

‘No,’ he said. Then thought:
At least not that I remember.

‘Tell me then.’

‘Later. Not now. Later.’

He left the kitchen to the smell of onions.

‘Where are you going?’ she called after him.

‘I’m soaked to the skin.’

‘Cal.’

‘I have to get changed.’

‘How bad is this trouble you’re in?’

He stopped half way up the stairs, pulling off his tie.

‘I can’t remember,’ he replied, but a voice at the back of his head – a voice he hadn’t heard in a long while – said:
Bad son, bad
, and he knew it spoke the bitter truth.

She followed him as far as the bottom of the stairs. He went into the bedroom, and peeled off his wet clothes, while she continued to ply him with questions for which he had no replies, and with every unanswered question he could hear her voice get closer to tears. He knew he’d call himself a louse for this tomorrow (what was tomorrow?; another dream), but
he had to be away from the house again quickly, in case the police came looking for him. He had nothing to tell them of course – at least he could remember nothing. But they had ways, these people, of making a man speak.

He rummaged through the wardrobe, looking for a shirt, jeans and a coat, not giving a conscious thought to the choice. As he slipped on the thread-bare jacket he glanced out of the window. The street-lights had just come on; the rain was a silver torrent in their glare. A chilly night for a jaunt, but it couldn’t be helped. He dug in his work suit for his wallet, which he transferred to his pocket, and that was it.

Geraldine was still at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She had successfully fought off tears.

‘And what am I supposed to tell them,’ she demanded, ‘if they come looking for you?’

‘Say I came and went. Tell them the truth.’

‘Maybe I won’t be here,’ she said. Then, warming to the idea. ‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll be here.’

He had neither the time nor the words to offer any genuine solace.

‘Please trust me,’ was all he could find to say. ‘I don’t know what’s happening any more than you do.’

‘Maybe you should see a doctor, Cal,’ she said as he came downstairs. ‘Maybe …’ – her voice softened – ‘… you’re ill.’

He stopped his descent.

‘Brendan told me things –’ she went on.

‘Don’t bring Dad into this.’

‘No,
listen to me,’
she insisted. ‘He used to talk to me, Cal. Told me things in confidence. Things he thought he’d seen.’

‘I don’t want to hear.’

‘He said he’d seen some woman killed in the back garden. And some monster on the railway track.’ She smiled gently at the lunacy of this.

Cal stared down at her, suddenly sick to his stomach. Again, he thought:
I know this.

‘Maybe
you’re
having hallucinations too.’

‘He was telling stories to keep you amused,’ said Cal. ‘He used to like to make stuff up. It was the Irish in him.’

‘Is that what you’re doing, Cal?’ she said, pleading for some reassurance. ‘Tell me it’s a joke.’

‘I wish to God I could.’

‘Oh, Cal –’

He went to the bottom of the stairs and softly stroked her face.

‘If anyone comes asking –’

‘I’ll tell them the truth,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Thank you.’

As he crossed to the front door she said:

‘Cal?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re not in love with this woman are you? Only I’d prefer you to tell me if you are.’

He opened the door. The rain slapped the doorstep.

‘I can’t remember,’ he said, and made a dash to the car.

3

After half an hour on the motorway the effects of a night without sleep, and all that the subsequent day had brought, began to catch up with Suzanna. The road in front of her blurred. She knew it was only a matter of time before she fell asleep at the wheel. She turned off the motorway at the first service stop, parked the car and went in search of a caffeine fix.

The cafeteria and amenities were thronged with customers, which she was thankful for. Amongst so many people, she was insignificant. Anxious about leaving the Weave a moment longer than she needed to, she purchased coffee from the vending machine rather than wait in a serpentine queue, then bought chocolate and biscuits from the shop and went back to the car.

Switching on the radio, she settled down to her stopgap meal. As she unwrapped the chocolate her thoughts went
again to Jerichau, the thief-magician, producing stolen goods from every pocket. Where was he now? She toasted him with her coffee, and told him to be safe.

At eight, the news came on. She waited for some mention of herself, but there was none. After the bulletin there was music; she let it play. Coffee drunk, chocolate and biscuits devoured, she slid down in the seat and her eyes closed to a jazz lullaby.

She was woken, mere seconds later, by a knocking on the window. There was a period of confusion while she worked out where she was, then she was wide awake, and staring with sinking heart at the uniform on the other side of the rain-streaked glass.

‘Please open the door,’ the policeman said. He seemed to be alone. Should she just turn on the engine and drive away? Before she could reach any decision the door was wrenched open from the outside.

‘Get out,’ the man said.

She complied. Even as she stepped from the car she heard the sound of soles on gravel on all sides of her.

Against the glare of the neon, a man stood silhouetted.

‘Yes,’ was all he said, and suddenly there were men coming at her from all sides. She was about to dig for the menstruum, but the silhouette was approaching her, with something in its hand. Somebody tore the sleeve from her arm, she felt the needle slide into her exposed skin. The subtle body rose, but not quickly enough. Her will grew sluggish, her sight narrowed to a well-shaft. At the end of it, Hobart’s mouth. She tumbled towards the man, her fingers gouging the slime on the walls, while the beast at the bottom roared its hosannas.

VIII

NEW EYES FOR OLD

he Mersey was high tonight, and fast; its waters a filthy brown, its spume grey. Cal leaned on the promenade railing and stared across the churning river to the deserted shipyards on the far bank. Once this waterway had been busy with ships, arriving weighed down with their cargo and riding high as they headed for faraway. Now, it was empty. The docks silted up, the wharfs and warehouses idle. Spook City; fit only for ghosts.