The Last Revelation Of Gla'aki (13 page)

It was almost ten to three. He added the book to the blackness in the safe and saw the moist print of his fingers vanish from the metal door. As he padded downstairs his footsteps sounded like a muffled heartbeat he'd brought to life. Mrs Berry was behind the counter, but she appeared to be asleep. Her head was tilted back so far that he couldn't immediately distinguish her face. Surely it was only the perspective that made her eyes appear to have sunk inwards, rendering the lids concave enough to fit a thumb in, but there was also the illusion that her features had sunk into the flesh. He was attempting to steal away when she sat up, rubbing a hand over her face so violently that she might have been embarrassed to have been caught sleeping at her post. He could have fancied that he glimpsed her face quivering with emotion or with her treatment. She gazed hard at him before she said "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Leonard?"

For a moment he wondered what she might have been dreaming, and then he didn't want to know. "Just a passing thought," he said.

"All the same."

That could scarcely be an answer to the question he hadn't voiced, and so he said "Actually, it seems I'm to be joined for the weekend. I hope that won't cause any problems."

"Your lady couldn't be more welcome," Janine Berry said with a look he could have taken as coquettish. "We'll see to it she is."

He felt as if his thoughts were too obvious, hardly his own any more. "Thank you for all your hospitality," he said.

He wanted to be in time for his appointment, but he also didn't mind avoiding the tenants of the shelter on the promenade. He drove along the street behind the Wyleave towards the church and came to Stillwater Funerals at a junction above the promenade. As he caught sight of it he realised that he hadn't asked for directions. He must have noticed the place or the name on the map at some point, though he didn't remember. In any case he no longer seemed to need the map.

The funeral parlour was a single-storey building not unlike an elongated vault with windows, and as grey as the light doled out by the fog above the sea. It was overlooked by the backs of hotels, and as Fairman left the car on the forecourt he saw people seated at several hotel windows. All of them were gazing in his direction, but he couldn't distinguish what was in their eyes, even when they each raised a hand to greet or acknowledge him. While they could hardly have been waiting for him, he would rather not imagine that they spent their days watching the funeral parlour.

Beyond a glass door with a black border, a venerable desk faced an expanse of carpet that yielded underfoot like moss. Two obese black leather couches rested against the walls, where the dark wallpaper seemed to hint at a pattern like stars almost too distant to see. A table scattered with dog-eared brochures bearing the slogan A Better Place squatted in front of each couch. The reception area was deserted, but a hymn hung like mist in the air. At least, Fairman took it for a hymn, so muted that he couldn't grasp the melody. As he strained to identify it and perhaps put words to it he heard soft heavy footfalls approaching down a corridor, and a man in a suit as grey as discretion plodded into the room. "Mr Fairman," he said, rather loudly for the setting. "Bernard Seddon."

His oval face tapered to not much of a chin, and his shoulders sloped so precipitately that his jacket seemed in danger of slipping off. Perhaps that was why he finished buttoning it before he gave Fairman an unctuous handshake, which came with a deferential nod that offered a view of the pallid central parting of his almost monkish tonsure. "Beg pardon for the wait," he said. "The girl's gone for a lie down. Big day tomorrow."

"I should be the one apologising. I wasn't quite on time." As the undertaker's large eyes widened while his small mouth worked on an expression, Fairman said "What kind of congratulations are in order?"

"For the girl?" Seddon's eyes grew wider still, elevating his hairless brows, and seemed to betray some kind of uneasy amusement. "She doesn't need any," he said. "If anyone does it's you, Leonard."

"I'm only doing my job."

"That's us, not you. You don't want to a look at mine, do you? See how we all finish up in Gulshaw."

"I really don't think that's necessary, thank you."

Did Fairman sense disappointment before Seddon recaptured his humour? "I don't get many complaints from my customers," the undertaker said. "Even the ones that aren't from here."

"I shouldn't think you would."

Fairman saw his bid to join in the joke fall flat; certainly Seddon's gaze retreated deep into his eyes. "Shall I bring it you?" the undertaker said.

"The book." Since the undertaker seemed to think this didn't call for a reply, Fairman said "By all means."

"I won't be two shakes."

Perhaps this was more of his notion of wit, since he was gone considerably longer. Once the soft footsteps faded along the corridor Fairman reverted to trying to identify the music that seemed to permeate the room. Was there a whisper of voices as well as the murmur of the organ? He didn't know how long he had been left alone when he thought he heard his name. Or might the words have been "Let us see him"? In any case they took him into the corridor.

There were three doors in either wall. Just the furthest on the right and the nearest left-hand door were open. From somewhere came a sound like long slow effortful breaths— the noise of some kind of suction. Fairman couldn't help feeling relieved when a glance through the first doorway showed him no more than a viewing room, where two rows of straight chairs faced an open coffin. Or was it meant for viewing? The underside of the lid reflected the contents; he could make out details of a dark suit, including a breast pocket, but surely other parts of the image were distorted, since the collar and the ends of the sleeves sported greyish masses with nothing he would call a shape. The figure must be part of some kind of display too macabre for Fairman's taste or, he would have hoped, anybody else's. He needn't wonder what the swollen greyish wads resembled, and he was resisting an urge to look in the coffin when a figure with a blurred face and hands lurched into the corridor.

They had to be blurred because they were at the edge of his vision. When he looked he saw Seddon with a book in his hands. "Want to see after all?" the undertaker said. "We can show you what happens if you like."

"No. No thank you." Fairman turned away from the room, only to sense the contents of the coffin behind him. "I just wondered if you were having difficulty finding the book," he said as he retreated down the corridor.

"Saying goodbye, that was all." Seddon plodded softly after him into the reception area and passed him the book. "I didn't need to, did I?" he said as though he'd seen another joke. "There's no goodbyes round here."

Fairman refrained from interpreting this. As the marks of moist fingertips faded from the cover of the book without exhibiting their prints he saw that the colophon depicted a coffin framed by a pair of open hands that might have been offering it to the reader. The volume was the ninth,
Of the Uses of the Dead.
Without taking time to think he blurted "You're the man to know."

"What are you making me, Leonard?"

"The chap who'd know about their uses." Fairman was thrown by how eager if not anxious the question had sounded. "That's supposing you think they have any," he said.

"We all have here. You most of all."

"Well, thank you," Fairman said, rather hoping Seddon thought he had the book in mind. "So who's my last custodian?"

"The father. Father Sinclough."

At once Fairman wondered how much was about to grow clearer. "The father," he said. "Did he give you this book?"

"All of us."

Fairman hadn't really needed to be told. "Why?" he said.

Seddon's face quivered as if the question had hurt him. "Seems like he thought he could trust us."

"You've proved him right, but why did he give them out at all?"

"Maybe he'll say. It wasn't up to us to ask."

Fairman suspected that the undertaker was being less than honest, but there was no need to interrogate him. "I'll call now if you have the number."

"It's here," Seddon said, poking his forehead.

Fairman glanced aside as he reached for his mobile. He'd thought Seddon's forefinger was significantly longer and thinner than the glimpse had made it seem. As he typed the digits Seddon intoned he had an odd sense of already knowing them. Of course he'd already encountered the Gulshaw prefix several times. The electronic trilling of a bell invaded the hushed music of the parlour, and eventually a man's uneven voice said "Sinclough."

He sounded short of breath if not of words. "Father Sinclough," Fairman said. "This is—"

"Mr Fairman. It couldn't be anyone other."

"And how about your people with the books?" Something like resentment of being taken for granted so much provoked Fairman to demand "Couldn't they have been either?"

"It should all be clear to you tomorrow, Mr Fairman."

"Why do I have to wait till then?"

"Preparing, Mr Fairman." The priest had begun to sound as if he grudged the breaths he was expending. "I've still got to," he said.

Fairman assumed he was thinking of the Sunday sermon. "You're telling me I can't have the book today."

"I'm sure you'll have enough to digest tonight as it is." Weightily enough to be quoting a sacred text, Father Sinclough said "All shall be ready for you in the morning."

"Where do I find you? What time?"

"My house is in Forest Avenue. Shall we say nine?"

At least Fairman would have the book well before he had to meet Sandra. As he agreed the time he heard the priest take a stuttering breath. "Don't drive, will you?" Father Sinclough said. "There may not be room to park."

"I expect the walk will do me good."

In a moment Fairman thought that a walk in the fog was scarcely likely to improve his health. As the faint music seeped into his ear he realised he was alone on the mobile. He shoved it in his pocket and was opening his mouth when the undertaker said "Don't thank me, Leonard. It's us should be thanking you for bringing it all together."

Did he think the addition to the archive would earn the town some tribute? At least one of the townsfolk preferred not to be named for the donation. "Let's say we all did," Fairman said and saw a response flicker in Seddon's eyes— appreciation, surely, but too distant to own up to its nature.

As he made for the car he felt as if the gelatinous light was gathering on his skin. By the time he'd shut the carton in the boot his skin was crawling clammily enough for fever. Along the route to the hotel all the windows looked as though the surrounding stone had expanded like fungus to coat the panes grey—condensation, of course. Nobody had rubbed them clear, but there wasn't much to see in the deserted glistening streets. He could have thought the entire town had succumbed to slumber, though he didn't blame anyone for staying indoors in this weather.

He was crossing the lobby when Janine Berry came out of the office behind the counter, massaging her cheeks as if to revive their lost tan. "Just fixing my face," she said, though for a moment her vigour had made it look alarmingly lopsided. "Will you do us the honour tonight, Leonard?"

He wasn't sure if he wanted to learn "Which one would that be?"

"Will you dine with us? No charge. Our privilege."

While he didn't relish the prospect of another walk in the fog, Fairman said "With whom?"

"Just our hotel. You're on your own till tomorrow."

"That's very kind. When would you like me?"

"Whenever suits you," Mrs Berry said and gave the carton in his hands a deferential nod. "Before you lose yourself or after if you prefer."

"These aren't the kind of books you lose yourself in." When she looked unconvinced he said "Before might be best."

"Can you give us twenty minutes? If it's less I'll let you know."

He could have thought she was eager for him to begin reading. Though it seemed early for dinner, he didn't like to protest when it was complimentary. Upstairs he transferred the book to the safe, where the mass of blackness reminded him of a lightless void. The tenants of the shelter might have been waiting for him to appear at the window so that they could salute him in unison. He couldn't tell how crowded the beach was in the fog, where every figure appeared to glisten whenever they grew visible. The sight made his mind feel incapable of grasping what was there, and he lay down on the bed until the phone rang beside it— rattled, at any rate. "We're ready for you," Janine Berry said.

She wasn't alone in the dining-room. She was flanked by Tom the porter, whose tan had grown patchy enough for a disease, and the chambermaid. All three bowed to Fairman while keeping their united gaze on him, so that he had to suppress a nervous laugh. Since Tom still wore the suit he'd worn while conducting Fairman to his room, it was perhaps not entirely surprising that the girl was dressed in her chambermaid's uniform. "Here you are by the window," Mrs Berry said as if he mightn't notice the only table that was set. "Wine, Dora," she said. "You'll have red, won't you, Mr Fairman?"

While that was his preference, he would rather not have had it taken for granted; somebody had even pulled the cork in advance. Once he'd tasted it and pronounced it fine despite an underlying ferrous tang, Mrs Berry said "Soup, Tom."

This was a greyish broth that resembled stagnant water with gelatinous fragments floating in it. "Is this seafood?" Fairman said in an attempt to prepare for a mouthful.

"Our very own," Mrs Berry said with some pride. "Brought up from the sea."

When he risked a spoonful Fairman found that it did indeed taste marine, in fact very reminiscent of meals he'd previously eaten in Gulshaw. He might have found it easier to finish if the staff of the Wyleave hadn't watched each mouthful, Dora shuffling forward to replenish his glass whenever he took a sip while Tom was equally dutiful in wielding a jug of water. When at last Fairman laid his spoon to rest in the bowl, Janine Berry said "Ready for our special?"

Fairman said he was but felt somewhat less so once Tom brought it in. The roundish steak was the same grey as the soup, and slithered towards the edge of the plate as the porter playing waiter stumbled on the threshold of the room. "Steady, son," Mrs Berry said.