Decay Inevitable (30 page)

Further along the lane he saw a trap without a pony and a pack of thin dogs conferring by a pond. They looked at him without interest as he walked by. As he drew alongside the gates of what appeared to be a salvage yard, filled with cracked, claw-footed bathtubs, radiators, steel buckets, and propellers, a voice cried out to him from an upstairs window in the building that backed onto the yard.

Will stopped and peered through the wooden slats of the gate.

“You, boy!” the voice called. “Give us a hand, won’t you?”

He saw a face at the window, and a hand waggling impatiently at him. Will pushed the gates open and jogged through the yard to the back door. Inside was a kitchen that smelled of suet and overcooked cabbage. Puddings wrapped in muslin were cooling on a windowsill. A recipe book was open and floury fingerprints spoilt a colour plate displaying a hollowed rabbit that was ready for the oven.

“In yet?” the voice called, a deep voice that was being peeled back to reveal a shrill centre.

“I’m coming,” Will said, and hurried up the stairs. On the landing he was greeted by an ecstasy of half-stuffed wildlife. He pushed by the still menagerie, with its glazed eyes and rictuses, and found the room in which the figure stood.

It was a man of around sixty years of age. He was naked. Will tried not to look, giving his attention instead to the framed maps on the walls. “My name is George,” the man said.

“Are you all right?” Will asked.

All bluster and bile, the other sputtered: “Of course I’m not all right, you blithering butterhead. What have you, a spatchcocked chicken for a brain? Can’t you see, I’m cut and bleeding and in a rare old state.”

Wishing he had carried on without stopping, Will said, “Do you have any bandages?”

“Do I look like a besodded pill-pusher? Great yawning twats, man. I should have called for help from that beetle over there.”

George had not yet turned around. Will’s eyes took in the heavily larded tectonic plates of his buttocks and thighs. One of this man’s calves could have stood in for Will’s chest. His back hung in layered scoops of fat that resembled a Christmas tree, the edges of which had been softened by snow. Slowly he turned, this shithouse, this pagoda of blubber, to fix Will with a niggardly eye like a currant pressed into pastry. Again the impact of recognition: there was something in the cast of these features that recalled those of Alice.

More of George was revealed. Will saw the manner of his injury and blushed. He had been winding his cock tight into a vice and had obviously caused some serious tearing at the moment of his climax. Will thought he was taking things very calmly, all things considered.

“Do you know Alice?” he asked, as much to deflect his study of the ruptured organ as anything. It jutted between the fat man’s thighs like a button mushroom. His abject expression might well have been displayed as a result of the wound, but it was for Will’s benefit.

“Shall we take tea and pikelets while we discuss such matters? Hmm?” George drew a podgy hand across his features and Will was struck with the horrifying certainty that the doughy mask would come off under his fingers. “I know of no Alice. All I know is that I am in pain, sir. The kind of pain that makes a man want to tear off his own head and cast it into the fire. Now, as you can see, I have damn-near castrated myself in a lunatic moment of self-absorption. Kindly fetch me something in which I might bind the old peashooter and help me get dressed. You might try that gallimaufry of men’s magazines over there. Under those.”

Will rooted around beneath the glossy, pink pages but only came up with a clean handkerchief folded into a neat square. He helped to jemmy George’s folds and flaps into his waistcoat and britches while they both wheezed with the effort. By the time Will had finished, the windows were steamed and George’s face was as ruddy as the blood on his hands.

“I’ll just buff the old wanking spanners, dear boy, then I’ll make you a bite. I apologise for the inconvenience, but not for my habits. I’m a lonely man who just happens to need extreme relief from time to time.”

In the kitchen, George pottered from larder to refrigerator to table, adding pickles and sausage and cheese to a large white plate. He handed this to Will and instructed him to cut some slices from a slab of bread. Will picked at the food, his appetite gone. George finished his food, then took on Will’s remains. His face in the trough, George became a personable companion, far removed from the objectionable bully Will had seen initially.

“Cakington-cakely?” George asked, when the last forkful of coleslaw had disappeared between his worming lips. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned across to the cupboard and extracted a huge Swiss roll.

It was something in the eyes, Will thought. Something that he and Alice shared. They must be related, he thought, regardless of George’s insistence that he did not know anyone of that name. He watched as George went at the cake with a spatula like a fencing expert showing off his best moves. Who was it that George and Alice reminded him of? He tried to push his mind beyond the young face and the black hole, the light, but he was not equal to it.

“My name’s Will, by the way,” he said, in the hope that offering his name might jolt some shred of recognition from his host.

“Short for?” George asked, working the question around a piece of Swiss roll that would have satisfied a family of four. Crumbs the size of £2 coins were ejected, retrieved and pasted into submission by his fearsome jaw.

“Just Will,” Will said. He heard the fatigue in his voice at the same time that he noticed the black sky begin to boil with clouds.

“George isn’t short for anything either. Good, stout, monosyllabic names. You can’t beat them.”

Unable, and unwilling, to mask his tiredness, Will said, “Where am I, exactly? Where is this place?”

“This is Gloat Market, quite evidently. There are signs as you enter.”

“Yeah, I know it’s Gloat Market, but what is Gloat Market in?”

George frowned. “Don’t follow you, friend.”

“I’m lost. I’ve never heard of this village, or Howling Mile or wherever else we’re near. What’s going on? What is this place?”

“
Gloat Market
,” George said irritably. “Crisp and oozing nips, man. I’ve never been to any of the other places. No need, really. I’m quite happy where I am.”

“What about everyone else?” Will persisted. “Are they happy where they are?”

“I’m quite certain of it.”

“Then where are they? It’s deserted. You and Alice are the only people I’ve seen all day.”

George gave him a look that suggested his leg was being pulled. “You’re tired, sir. Have a nap and all your nonsense will be forgotten.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Will spat, and rose from the table. George laid a hand on his arm.

“You might want to try to settle in here,” he said. “Sometimes it’s best not to look too hard for something, even if you don’t know what that something is.”

“What are you trying to say?”

George’s hands flew into the air and he smiled a shockingly toothy smile. “Nothing, dear man. Absolutely nothing whatsoever. Just sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. As you were to me.”

Will said goodbye, and hiked up a short hill. The clouds gave up their attempt to hold on to the rain in their bellies and vomited a heavy, oily deluge that soaked Will to the skin in seconds. Cursing loudly, he ran to a cluster of trees and, once in their shelter, saw another house in their shade, its front door swinging merrily in the gusty blow of what was fast becoming a nasty little storm.

Will called a greeting as he entered the hallway and blinked hard as he saw a splash of motion – a woman carrying a tray – at the threshold to a dining room. There was nobody there. He hurried upstairs and flicked a light in the bathroom. There was nobody here either, despite the stroboscopic blip depicting a young woman soaping herself in a bath full of bubbles. He undressed and showered, leaning against the wall while the jet of water fizzed against his skin. When he finally stepped out of the cubicle and started drying himself in front of the mirror, he had to blink hard again, but not because he had seen the ghost of somebody sharing the bathroom with him. He reached out to the mirror and rubbed away the steamed surface. When it was clear, he was able to see the two patches of rot that were eating into his flesh: one on the side of his arm where George had touched him, the other on the back of his forearm: Alice.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
T
WO:
M
ARAUDER

P
ARDOE HAD SAID
there were just three Inserts. Sean, Emma, and Naomi. But others, it seemed, had learned the secret. Crossing the bridge that spanned the river (known as the Timeless, according to an impatient tradesman on his way to buy calves at an auction), Sean had leaned for a moment on the parapet to watch the traffic below. A barge made its way to the north bank, farting black clouds of diesel smoke in its wake. At the bow, he caught a glimpse of Tim Enever. He was certain of it. By the time he’d nudged Emma to tell her, he was gone.

“I wouldn’t know him anyway,” Emma said, reasonably.

“Well, you won’t ever forget him when you do clap eyes on him. Come on.”

They hurried to the other side of the bridge in time to see the barge dock and the harbour master secure the boat with rope as thick as an arm. Goat-swift, Tim was off the boat and scurrying into a warren of backstreets, his arm clasping to his chest a package wrapped in cream-coloured paper. A red bloom was spreading across the bottom. For a moment, Sean supposed that the other was not Tim – how would such a physical wreck be able to move like that? – but then Sean himself was finding that he was able to move much more quickly over here.
Over Here
was how he preferred to call this place.
Over Here
and
Back There
. It tickled Emma to hear him talk in this fashion. She had christened it
Tantamount
.

As he cut into Tim’s lead, Emma began to drop back. He called to her to wait by the river and she pulled up, her hands on her waist, as he dived into the alleyway that had borne Tim’s feet not twenty seconds before. He kept to claws of shade as a filthy shower of sleet began, moving from pillar to post, pylon to pergola as Tim flitted through the heavily peopled alleys, his hair flapping around his tiny head like an anemone. At a covered market, he slowed to walking pace and took some time to inspect the produce, all the while rubbing at his booty (his lunch, was it?) as if it were a cat in need of succour. The stalls here were thick with game, vegetables, and pulses. Spice jars emphasised the lack of colour all around. Dogs and ferrets chased each other through the forests of legs while customers argued the toss over a couple of coppers to pay for their cockles and bully beef. A basket of chickens tumbled across Sean’s path, causing him to veer into a scrum of elderly men drinking tarry wine from a huge moonshine jug. Their curses followed him deeper into the gloom. A sticky smell of hemp hung here, like fragranced steam in a sauna. Tim was dawdling now, stopping to chat to a woman selling beads and to take a small cup of strong, thick coffee with the neighbouring café owner. Tim had a swagger here that seemed ridiculous in such a reedy frame. When he pushed on into the bazaar, Sean hurried over to the bead seller and pretended to browse her wares for all of two seconds before:

“That man, just now. That man you were talking to. Who is he?”

The woman looked up at him from beneath a pair of eyelashes that must have been three inches long. A rat squirmed in and out of the folds of her clothes. Her breasts sometimes jiggled into view, small and brown as nuts. She smiled at him and showed off teeth that had been ground and patterned like tiny tablets of sculpted ivory.

“That was Mr Edge,” she said. “Alderley Edge. He’s very popular round these parts.” She rubbed her finger and thumb together. “He has big pockets.”

“Does he live near here?” Sean was getting anxious. He would lose Tim if he wasn’t careful.

“Yes. He has an apartment in the clipper.”

“The clipper?”

“Yes. A grounded boat in Frenzy Square. You won’t miss it, I promise you.”

“Nice rat,” Sean said, as the animal slid luxuriously into the woman’s cleavage and lounged there, twitching at him.

The market stalls thinned out. He emerged in a tunnel filled with fresh air but scant lighting. At the other end, a courtyard floored with large, terracotta tiles boasted a ship at its heart, listing heavily to the port side without any water to support it. Huge wooden stanchions supported its bulk and prevented it from tipping over any further. He saw a figure against one of the portholes, observing his approach. He wondered if Tim would recognise him as he clambered aboard, a wave of vertigo almost tipping him over as the freshly canted decks of the boat, the
Flat Earth
if the nameplate above the wheel were to be believed, spread out around him.

“Tim?” Sean called gently, thinking,
Alderley Edge?

The door to one of the cabins had not been closed properly. Sean let himself in and found Tim sitting on a chair by the porthole, trying to get the cork out of a bottle of rum.

“Do you want a hand with that, Tim?”

Tim tossed the bottle to him. “I’d rather you called me Alderley. Or Mr. Edge. Yes, Mr. Edge would be best.”

He took two glasses from a leggy cupboard that had been customised to deal with the absurd angles and set them down on the table. Sean poured. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, taking one of the glasses and drinking deeply.

“Any question you ask, I could ask of you,” Tim parried.

“I’m here because a girl died. If we’re playing
quid pro quo
, then I believe it’s your turn.”

He was still the gawky, ponderous Tim when you got up close. But cleaner somehow. Sharper. None of the serous fluids that wept from his cavities, or rumbled in his chest were in evidence here. The boy was almost good-looking. He realised that this would be answer enough for his question, but Tim led him in a different direction.