The World House (27 page)

  "Quite right, my dear," said Carruthers, returning to the cave. "The passage extends a few feet beyond here but then is blocked. There's no danger of someone sneaking up on us from that direction." He looked baffled at the strange whistling noises and Sixties kitsch coming from the gramophone. "People listen to this, do they?" he asked Miles.

  "Not many," Miles admitted, "but I rather like it – he wrote a lot of good stuff for Spaghetti Westerns."

  "Only you know what you're talking about, darling," said Penelope, lying back on one of the sofas, her feet propped up on the arm.

  "
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Django, Il Grande
Silenzio
," listed Ashe, miming a gun with his fingers at Miles. "Corbucci was good but Leone was king."

  "Yes!" enthused Miles, "
Once Upon a Time in the
West
! That opening… The flies, the harmonica… Bronson when he was still cool."

  "Bronson was always cool."

  "Without wanting to interrupt your social club, gentlemen," said Penelope, "might we have the fire lit?"

  "Oh," said Miles, embarrassed by his enthusiasm, "yes, of course."

  Ashe chuckled and closed his eyes as if to doze.

  "Here," said Carruthers, throwing Miles the matches. "Is there enough wood, do you think?"

  "Erm, should be," Miles said, before catching Carruthers' eye and realising the man wanted a private word, "though I suppose there's no harm in checking outside… in case there's any more close to hand."

  "Allow me," said Ashe, opening his eyes and swinging his legs off the
chaise-longue.

  "Wouldn't hear of it," said Carruthers. "You looked about to drop off. Rest a moment. Miles and I are perfectly capable."

  Miles stepped back from the crackling fire, dropping the match into the grate. "Absolutely, I could do with stretching my legs!" he joked.

  "Warm up for a minute first," said Penelope. "Stop being so butch."

  "More a case of seeing what can be found before night falls, my dear," Carruthers replied. "The darkness cannot be far off."

  "Oh, hooray," Penelope replied sarcastically, "the nights are
such
fun here."

  "Indeed," Carruthers replied, "all the more reason to ensure we have plenty of light and warmth." He and Miles walked back down the short tunnel and into the open air.

  "Worried?" Miles asked.

  "Always," Carruthers replied, gesturing to Miles to walk a little further, "but not about our accommodation."

  "I don't know," said Miles, shivering against the wind, "all seems a bit convenient to me."

  "Oh, it is," Carruthers agreed, "and, more to the point, Ashe knew exactly where to find it."

  "What, all that 'this is definitely the right way' and 'let's have a peek around the corner' stuff?"

  "Precisely. Our Mr Ashe knows precisely where we're going, don't you think?"

  "I had wondered. Bit weird as he's supposedly new here."

  "Yes, well, I think we can dismiss that as a notion, he knows far too much." Carruthers began scraping at the snow beneath his feet, looking for vegetation.

  "So why are we just going along with it?" Miles asked, following Carruthers' lead and unearthing a tiny root with far more enthusiasm than it deserved.

  "That should keep us warm for a second or so," Carruthers remarked, flinging the root away. "I see no reason not to follow his directions for now. He clearly has a destination in mind and it may be one that benefits us all."

  "Or it may be a trap."

  "Rather a laboured one, surely? Besides, I'm inclined to believe that he had just appeared in the library when we found him."

  "He could have snuck in while we were distracted."

  "And then lain down amongst the worms to wait for us to wake up? I doubt it – besides, wouldn't Penelope have spotted him?"

  "She was rather distracted."

  "True. I don't know, you may be right… but my gut tells me that that at least was genuine. And if it was…"

  "The only way he could know so much about the place is if he's been here before."

  "Precisely: been here, left and then returned. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

  "But if that were the case why doesn't he just tell us?"

  "Oh, he's playing some devilish game or another, no doubt about that." Carruthers unearthed a wizened bush and began to kick at its root bole to try and loosen it from the ice. "We just have to decide whether it's worth playing along, using his knowledge and keeping on our toes for the moment he turns."

  "Sounds like a bloody big risk to me."

  "What isn't here? We know nothing, he knows a great deal… I'm fairly certain I haven't the emotional wherewithal to torture the information out of him – what about you?"

  "If he keeps chatting Penelope up I might find the odd punch to the testicles in me." Miles wrenched a slender branch from the snow.

  "I hardly think he presents a threat on that score," Carruthers replied with a smile. "The man's postively monosyllabic. Nor am I convinced that now is the time for romantic inclinations."

  "Oh," blustered Miles, "I wasn't thinking… that is, I haven't…"

  "Do be quiet, old chap, it's obvious you like her."

  "Well, yes, obviously she's very nice but… look, can we get back to the subject in hand?"

  Carruthers nodded. "Those red cheeks of yours should keep you warm out here."

  "It's the wind, that's all… oh, shut up." Miles smiled, he couldn't fight his corner and knew it. "OK, so we carry on for now."

  "Good, and given that he knew about this place and seems only too happy in it I'm inclined to think it's safe. A logical assumption?"

  "I suppose so. Though I'm sleeping with one eye open just in case."

  "Then I look forward to seeing how exhausted you are in the morning!" Carruthers looked up. "The sky is beginning to bruise, old chap, what say we take our meagre stock of firewood inside and see about some dinner?"

 

They returned to the cave, dumping their pathetic supply of sticks next to a fire that crackled its contempt.

  "Well," said Penelope, "as long as we're all agreed that was worth it."

  "The ice was just too thick," said Miles. "It was like trying to grab things off a shop shelf from the wrong side of the window."

  "I'm sure the fire will last," said Ashe. "It's been burning solidly for a while but you wouldn't know it to look at the wood."

  "As long as it makes its presence felt on our victuals as surely as it does on our bones," said Carruthers, "might I suggest we prepare some food?"

  "And what choice delights await us this evening?" asked Penelope. "Did we pack a rack of lamb? I forget. Or perhaps a little beef filet?"

  "Beans with little sausages in!" Miles announced rifling through the tins, "I bloody love those!"

  They heated a tin each, Carruthers insisting that they needed to fill their bellies if they hoped to climb a respectable distance the next day. After their meal was done, Penelope put the gramophone to use again, shimmying to the sounds of Sixties jazz. The music was incongruous but certainly didn't care, guitars and flutes bouncing off the cave walls without the least concern. Ashe closed his eyes, appearing to sleep despite the music. Following his example, Carruthers begged exhaustion and bedded down shortly after. Within a few minutes his snoring was competing with Ashe's.

  "Well," sighed Penelope, turning off the music, "they sure know how to kill a party."

  "Oh yes, the canapés, the conversation, the constant threat of bears sneaking in and biting our faces off."

  "Well, you're a morbid chap this evening," Penelope said with a smile.

  "Not at all, actually," Miles admitted, rooting around in his pack for the box of cigars Carruthers had demanded he leave behind due to their being "utterly inessential". "I did all my wishing for death before coming here. I'm now determined to live an obscenely long life…" he held up his cigar "…and I'm sure this will help. Want to come and stand in the doorway and watch me smoke it?"

  "Watch you? I'll join you… It's obviously the only entertainment on offer this evening."

  They walked to the mouth of the cave, the temperature dropping the minute they passed the warm curtain of air offered by the fire. Miles lit their cigars with a match, peering over his shoulder to make sure that Carruthers was asleep. Penelope thought he appeared quite the naughty schoolboy and told him so. For a few minutes they stood and silently smoked. Miles hadn't the first idea what to say now it actually came down to it. Penelope was shivering and Miles was torn between suggesting they abandon their cigars, offering her his jacket or even… imagine… putting his arm around her. He was just deciding that the latter was so damn terrifying he would be happier jumping off the cliff, when she gave him a big hug. "Some gentleman you are – I'm freezing to death here, the least you could do is put your arm around me or something."

  "Right," said Miles, trying not to do any of that screaming-with-joy business, "sorry."

  "No problem," Penelope replied, "as long as you do a good job of it now."

  Miles felt absurdly happy, puffing on his cigar and rubbing his hand up and down Penelope's back. He smoked
very
slowly.

 

 

 

Alan was no stranger to loss; in fact one might say his life had been built on it. People lost all manner of things, from loved ones to jobs, limbs to marbles. But few had lost as much as he: great chunks of history, vanished so completely he couldn't even feel the hole. Still, he had known no greater agony than when they pulled him from the ocean. The thick water droplets pouring from his hair and skin felt like the best of him falling away. What was left, this construction of meat and bone, this shitting and wheezing absurdity… what sort of burden was this? He had been grace; he had been the ebb and flow across infinite distance; he had been the tide; he had been the chill breeze across the surface, the ripple and splash; he had been the ocean. Now he was flesh, solid, barely able to move due to the sheer, suffocating weight of himself. He had cried as the hands held him up, carrying him into the dark where the air felt brittle as glass next to the skin, not like the soft blanket of the water, the perfect, folding embrace of the waves. As they left him there, closing the door and abandoning him to the darkness, he could imagine himself swollen to the size of a moon: a fat rock trapped in the pointlessness of space. He would have welcomed death, if only he could have lifted his leaden arms to find a weapon with which to achieve it. Even if he could have done so, how sharp a blade must be needed to hack through this skin? And what would he find beneath? Dust? Grit? Ball-bearings? He closed his eyes and solidified until sleep took him to dreams of water.

  He woke several times, often delirious. At one point his screaming brought company: those same terrible hands that had torn him from the water now returned, this time forcing him down on to the bed, its thin mattress a poor imitation of the water's soft support. One hand clapped across his wide mouth, attempting to silence him, its fingers tasting of tar and sweat, fat and odious, solid things. He thought about biting the fingers but couldn't bear the thought of them bleeding in his mouth, filling him with even more of that leaden juice. They were strong, these hands, but his traitorous body made their work light; he could barely move as it was.

  At one point he awoke, certain that there had been something in the room with him. Something invisible, like that force in the darkness between the jungle and the house. This reminded him of Whitstable and for one moment he imagined he could smell him: a sweet pork roast, sharpening his wooden stake and planning where to strike. Then he wondered if this presence might be young Sophie, who must be suffering as much as he. The shame he felt at having forgotten her entirely, so consumed with his own selfish loss, shook the delirium clear for a moment and he called for her. There was no answer and the mental funk returned as he slipped back into unconsciousness, listening to the sound around him: a creaking and straining like a man hanging from the gibbet.

 

"Are you awake?" a voice asked and Alan was surprised to find that he was, his head clear, his body once more his own. A lamp revealed the room to him, a small cabin, dark wood and bare of decoration. He sat up in the bed, a thick woollen sheet falling from him and releasing a fug of his own night sweats. The room still creaked but he knew the sound for what it was: the stretching of a boat on the water as its planks and beams ground against one another, buffeted by the swell.

  "I'm on a ship," he said.

  "Indeed you are," the voice replied. The speaker yanked open a rough curtain to let in the white light of the outside world. He was a man close to Alan's age, though he wore the years more visibly in the salt of his beard and the creases of his skin. His hair was long, pulled back into a ponytail that hung in thick, greasy lengths down his back. His clothes weren't the rags of the jungle natives – he wore a thick white shirt and black trousers – but they showed the same signs of hard weather and long wear as their owner, patches marking old wounds in the fabric. The man snuffed the lantern and sat on the end of Alan's bed. "The good ship
Intrepid
, in fact," he said, "a schooner held together by spit and imagination." He smiled "Nonetheless you are as safe as one ever can be and our honoured guest."

  "Thank you," Alan replied, "though you'll forgive me if I'm a little cautious: the last people that offered me hospitality wanted to eat me."

  The man laughed. "No fear of that. As much as the crew tires of hard tack, you don't look the most appetising of cattle. Besides, most gentlemen would consider it an unbreakable rule never to eat something they could also have a conversation with."