Weaveworld

The vultures who’d picked the household clean had forgotten to rifle the contents of the tall-boy. Mimi’s clothes still hung on the rails, coats and furs and ball-gowns, all, most likely, unworn since last Suzanna had opened this treasure trove. Which thought reminded her of what she’d sought on that occasion She went down on her haunches, telling herself that it was folly to think her gift would still be there, and yet knowing indisputably that it was.

She was not disappointed. There, amongst the shoes and tissue, she found a package wrapped in plain brown paper and marked with her name. The gift had been postponed, but not lost.

Her hands had begun to tremble. The knot in the faded ribbon defied her for half a minute, and then came free. She pulled the paper off.

Inside: a book. Not new, to judge by its scuffed corners, but finely bound in leather. She opened it. To her surprise, she found it was in German. Geschichten der Geheimen Orte the title read, which she hesitatingly translated as Stories of the Secret Maces. But even if she hadn’t had a smattering of the language, the illustrations would have given the subject away: it was a book of faery-tales.

She sat down at the top of the stairs, candle at her side, and began to study the volume more closely. The stories were familiar, of course: she’d encountered them, in one form or another, a hundred times. She’d seen them re-interpreted as Hollywood cartoons, as erotic fables, as the subject of learned theses and feminist critiques. But their bewitchment remained undiluted by commerce or academe. Sitting there, the child in her wanted to hear these stories told again, though she knew every twist and turn, and had the end in mind before the first line was spoken. That didn’t matter, of course. Indeed their inevitability was part of their power. Some tales could never be told too often.

Experience had taught her much: and most of the news was bad. But these stories taught different lessons. That sleep resembled death, for instance, was no revelation; but that death might with kisses be healed into mere sleep … that was knowledge of a different order. Mere wish-fulfilment, she chided herself. Real life had no miracles to offer. The devouring beast, if cut open, did not disgorge its victims unharmed. Peasants were not raised overnight to princedom, nor was evil ever vanquished by a union of true hearts. They were the kind of illusions that the pragmatist she’d striven so hard to be had kept at bay.

Yet the stories moved her. She couldn’t deny it. And they moved her in a way only true things could. It wasn’t sentiment that brought tears to her eyes. The stories weren’t sentimental. They were tough, even cruel. No, what made her weep was being reminded of an inner life she’d been so familiar with as a child; a life that was both an escape from, and a revenge upon, the pains and frustrations of childhood; a life that was neither mawkish nor unknowing; a life of mind-places – haunted, soaring – that she’d chosen to forget when she’d took up the cause of adulthood.

More than that; in this reunion with the tales that had given her a mythology, she found images that might help her fathom her present confusion.

The outlandishness of the story she’d entered, coming back to Liverpool, had thrown her assumptions into chaos. But here, in the pages of the book, she found a state of being in which nothing was fixed: where magic ruled, bringing transformations and miracles. She’d walked there once, and far from feeling lost, could have passed for one of its inhabitants. If she could recapture that insolent indifference to reason, and let it lead her through the maze ahead, she might comprehend the forces she knew were waiting to be unleashed around her.

It would be painful to relinquish her pragmatism, however: it had kept her from sinking so often. In the face of waste and sorrow she’d held on by staying cool; rational. Even when her parents had died, separated by some unspoken betrayal which kept them, even at the last, from comforting each other, she’d coped; simply by immersing herself in practicalities until the worst was over.

Now the book beckoned, with its chimeras and its sorceries; all ambiguity; all flux; and her pragmatism would be worthless. No matter. Whatever the years had taught her about loss, and compromise, and defeat she was here invited back into a forest in which maidens tamed dragons; and one of those maidens still had her face.

Having scanned three or four of the stories, she turned to the front of the book, in search of an inscription. It was brief.

‘To Suzanna.’ it read. ‘Love from M.L.’

It shared the page with an odd epigram:

Das, was man sick vorstellt, braucht man nie zu verlieren.

She struggled with this, suspecting that her rusty German might be missing the felicities. The closest approximation she could make was:

That which is imagined need never be lost.

With this oblique wisdom in mind, she returned to the stories, lingering over the illustrations, which had the severity of woodcuts but on closer inspection concealed all manner of subtleties. Fish with human faces gazed up from beneath the pristine surface of a pool; two strangers at a banquet exchanged whispers that had taken solid form in the air above their heads; in the heart of a wild wood figures all but hidden amongst the trees showed pale, expectant faces.

The hours came and went, and when, having been through the book from cover to cover, she briefly closed her eyes to rest them, sleep overcame her.

When she woke she found her watch had stopped a little after two. The wick at her side flickered in a pool of wax, close to drowning. She got to her feet, limping around the landing until the pins and needles had left her foot, and then went into the back bedroom in search of a fresh candle.

There was one on the window ledge. As she picked it up, her eye caught a movement in the yard below. Her heart jumped; but she stood absolutely still so as not to draw attention to herself, and watched. The figure was in shadow, and it wasn’t until he forsook the corner of the yard that the starlight showed her the young man she’d seen here the day before.

She started downstairs, picking up a fresh flame on the way. She wanted to speak to the man; wanted to quiz him on the reasons for his flight, and the identity of his pursuers.

As she stepped out into the yard he rose from his hiding place and made a dash for the back gate.

‘Wait!’ she called after him. ‘It’s Suzanna.’

The name could mean little to him, but he halted nevertheless.

‘Who?’ he said.

‘I saw you yesterday. You were running –’

The girl in the hall, Cal realized. The one who’d come between him and the Salesman.

‘What happened to you?’ she said.

He looked terrible. His clothes were ripped, his face dirtied; and, though she couldn’t be sure, bloodied too.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his voice scraping gravel. ‘I don’t know anything any longer.’

‘Why don’t you come inside?’

He didn’t move.

‘How long have you been here?’ he said.

‘Hours.’

‘And the house is empty?’

‘Except for me, yes.’

With this ascertained, he followed her through the back door. She lit several more candles. The light confirmed her suspicions. There was blood on him; and a cess-pit smell.

‘Is there any running water?’ he said.

‘I don’t know; we can try.’

They were in luck; the Water Board had not turned off the supply. The kitchen tap rattled and the pipes roared but finally a stream of icy water was spat forth. Cal slung off his jacket and doused his face and arms.

‘I’ll see if I can find a towel,’ said Suzanna. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Cal.’

She left him to his ablutions. With her gone he stripped off his shirt and sluiced down his chest, neck and back with chilly water. She was back before he was done, with a pillow-slip.

‘Nearest thing I can find to a towel,’ she said.

She had set two chairs in the lower front room, and lit several candles there. They sat together, and talked.

‘Why did you come back?’ she wanted to know. ‘After yesterday.’

‘I saw something here.’ he said, cautiously. ‘And you? Why are you here?’

‘This is my grandmother’s house. She’s in hospital. Dying. I came back to look around.’

‘The two I saw yesterday,’ Cal said. ‘Were they friends of your grandmother’s?’

‘I doubt it. What did they want with you?’

Here Cal knew he got into sticky ground. How could he begin to tell her what joys and fears the last few days had brought?

‘It’s difficult …’ he said. ‘I mean, I’m not sure anything that’s happened to me recently makes much sense.’

‘That makes two of us,’ she replied.

He was looking at his hands, like a palmist in search of a future. She studied him; his torso was covered in scratches, as though he’d been wrestling wolves.

When he looked up his pale blue eyes, fringed with black lashes, caught her scrutiny. He blushed slightly.

‘You said you saw something here,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me what?’

It was a simple question, and he saw no reason not to tell her. If she disbelieved him, that was her problem, not his. But she didn’t. Indeed, as soon as he described the carpet her eyes grew wide and wild.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A carpet. Of course.’

‘You know about it?’ he said.

She told him what had happened at the hospital; the design Mimi had tried to show her.

Now any lingering doubts about telling the whole story were forgotten. He gave her the adventure from the day the bird had escaped. His vision of the Fugue; Shadwell and his coat; Immacolata; the by-blows; their mother and the midwife; events at the wedding, and after. She punctuated his narrative with insights of her own, about Mimi’s life here in the house, the doors bolted, the windows nailed down, living in a fortress as if awaiting siege.

‘She must have known somebody would come for the carpet sooner or later.’

‘Not for the carpet,’ said Cal. ‘For the Fugue.’

She saw his eyes grow dreamy at the word, and envied him his glimpse of the place: its hills, its lakes, its wild woods. And were there maidens amongst those trees, she wanted to ask, who tamed dragons with their song? That was something she would have to discover for herself.

‘So the carpet’s a doorway, is it?’ she said.

‘I don’t know.’ he replied.

‘I wish we could ask Mimi. Maybe she –’

Before the sentence was out, Cal was on his feet.

‘Oh my God.’ Only now did he recall Shadwell’s words on the rubbish tip, about going to speak to the old woman.

He’d meant Mimi, who else? As he pulled on his shirt he told Suzanna what he’d heard.

‘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 to 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.

Standing at the corner of Jamaica Street, staring across at the dereliction, Cal wondered if the late Mr Gilchrist would have been proud to have his name emblazoned across such a decayed establishment. Business could not flourish here, unless they were the kind of dealings best done out of the public eye.

The opening times of the warehouse were displayed on a weather-beaten board, where the cinema had once announced its current fare. Sundays, it was open between nine-thirty and twelve. It was now one-fifteen. The double-doors were closed and bolted, and a pair of huge ironwork gates, a grotesque addition to the facade, padlocked in front of the doors.

‘What are your house-breaking skills like?’ Cal asked Suzanna.

‘Under-developed,’ she replied. ‘But I’m a fast learner.’

They crossed Jamaica Street for a closer inspection. There was little need to pretend innocence; there had been no pedestrians on the street since they’d arrived, and traffic was minimal.

‘There must be some way in,’ said Suzanna. ‘You head round the far side. I’ll go this way.’

‘Right. Meet you at the back.’

They parted. Whereas Cal’s route had taken him into shadow, Suzanna’s left her in bright sunlight. Oddly, she found herself longing for some clouds. The heat was making her blood sing, as though she was tuned in to some alien radio-station, and its melodies were whining around her skull.

As she listened to them Cal stepped around the corner, startling her.

‘I’ve found a way,’ he said, and led her round to what had once been the cinema’s emergency exit. It too was padlocked, but both chain and lock were well rusted. He had already found himself half a brick, with which he now berated the lock. Brick-shards flew off in all directions, but after a dozen blows the chain surrendered, Cal put his shoulder to the door, and pushed. There was a commotion from inside, as a mirror and several other items piled against the door toppled over; but he was able to force a gap large enough for them to squeeze through.