Weaveworld (87 page)

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

1

f there was any pattern at all to the events of the day following, it was of reunions denied by chance, and of others just as capriciously granted.

Suzanna had decided the previous evening that she’d go up to Liverpool and re-establish contact with Cal. There was no use in circumspection now. Events were clearly approaching a crisis-point. Cal had to be warned, and plans made – the kind of plans that could only be made face to face – about how they could best protect Mimi’s book, and their lives, in the coming storm. She tried calling him ‘til about midnight, but nobody answered.

In the morning she rang Apolline, fresh from Salisbury, to tell her what she’d seen and learned at the Shrine of the Mortalities. She was prepared for Apolline to reject the information Immacolata’s spirit had offered, out of contempt for its source, but that proved not to be the case.

‘Why shouldn’t we believe it?’ she said, ‘If the dead can’t be honest, who can? Besides, it only confirms what we already knew.’

Suzanna told her she planned to go to Liverpool, and talk with Cal.

‘You won’t be alone up there,’ Apolline informed her. ‘Some people went looking for raptures in your grandmother’s house. You might want to find out if they had any luck.’

‘I’ll do that. I’ll call you when I’ve seen them.’

‘Don’t expect me to be sober.’

Before setting out Suzanna tried calling Chariot Street once more. This time her call received the number disconnected tone; the operator could not tell her why. The morning news bulletin would have answered the question, had she switched on the radio; the television would even have shown her pictures of the patch of blasted ground where the Mooney house had once stood. But she tuned in too late for the news, only catching the weather-report, which promised snow, and more snow.

Attempting the journey by car was, she knew, a certain disaster. Instead she took a taxi to Euston, and the mid-morning train North. Just about the time she was settling down for the four-hour trip to Liverpool Lime Street – which in fact took six – Cal was half way to Birmingham on the eight-twenty train via Runcorn and Wolverhampton.

2

He’d called Gluck from a telephone box at the Pier Head, where he’d gone following the confrontation in the fog. There was no particular plan in this: he’d just felt the need to go to the river, and the last night bus before dawn had taken him there. He’d slipped the Scourge, at least for the time being; he even entertained the thought that the creature might be satisfied with the devastation it had wrought. But his gut knew differently. The Angel – Shadwell’s
flame of God
– had an insatiable appetite for death. It would not be satisfied until they were all dust: Shadwell included, he hoped. Indeed the only comfort he drew from the night’s horrors was the sense he’d had that he’d been viewing the Salesman’s farewell performance.

The wind off the river was bitter; the snow in it pricked his skin like needles. But he leaned on the railings and watched the water until his fingers and face were numb; then, with the clocks on the Liver Building all offering times in the vicinity of six, he went in search of sustenance. He was in luck. A small cafe was open, serving breakfast to the early-run bus
drivers. He bought himself a substantial meal, thawing out as he ate his eggs and toast, still trying to sort out what was for the best. Then, around six-thirty, he tried to get through to Gluck. He hadn’t really expected any reply, but luck was with him, at least in this, for just as he was about to put the receiver down, the ‘phone at the other end was picked up.

‘Hello?’ said a sleep-thickened voice. Though Cal knew Gluck scarcely at all, he’d seldom, if ever, been so happy to make contact with someone.

‘Mr Gluck? It’s Cal Mooney. You probably won’t remember me, but –’

‘– of course I remember. How are things on the Mersey?’

‘I have to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I can’t on the ‘phone.’

‘Well, come and see me. Do you have my address?’

‘Yes. I’ve still got your card.’

‘Then come. I’d enjoy the company.’

These welcoming words, coming after the losses of the night, were almost too much; Cal felt his eyes pricking.

‘I’ll get the first train down,’ he said.

‘I’ll be here.’

Cal stepped out of the telephone box into the biting air. Daylight was still a while away; the snow-bound streets were almost deserted as he trudged up towards the station. A truck laboured through the gloom, spreading grit on the icy road; a newspaper vendor was laying out the early morning edition in the dubious shelter of a doorway; otherwise, he saw nobody. It was difficult to imagine, as he trudged, that there would ever be another spring in Spook City.

3

Suzanna stood at the end of Chariot Street and stared at the sight before her. There were too many people milling around for her to advance any further – her suspicion of uniforms had not mellowed; nor had that of Cuckoos in large numbers
– but she could see dearly from where she stood that the Mooney house no longer existed. It had been razed literally
to the ground
, and the fire that had consumed it had spread along the row in both directions. The Scourge had come visiting in the night.

Trembling, she left the scene, and made her way to Rue Street, fearing the worst. She found there nothing she hadn’t anticipated. Mimi’s house had been gutted.

What was she to do now?; return to London and leave Cal – if he’d survived – to his own devices? She had no way of tracing him; she could only trust that somehow he’d find his way to her. Things were so damn chaotic, with the Kind spread across the country, and Cal missing, and the book?; she didn’t dare think too hard about that. She just turned her back on the ruins of Mimi’s house and walked away down Rue Street, what little store of optimism she’d possessed defeated by what she’d seen.

As she turned the corner, a kerb-crawler drew up alongside her, and a round face, wearing sun-glasses, leaned out of the window.

‘You’re going to get cold,’ he said.

‘Go to Hell,’ she told him, and quickened her step. He kept pace with her.

‘I told you to go to Hell,’ she said, throwing him a look intended to leave him limp. He slid his glasses down his nose, and stared at her. The eyes revealed beneath were bright gold.

‘Nimrod?’

‘Who else?’

Had it not been for the eyes she’d never have recognized him. His face had filled out, all but a hint of his good looks gone.

‘I need feeding,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

4

His appetite seemed to have expanded in direct proportion to the direness of their jeopardy. She sat across the table of the
Chinese restaurant where he took her, and watched him wade through the menu, devouring not only his food but most of hers too.

It didn’t take long for them to provide each other with outlines of their recent investigations. Most of her news was stale stuff now: the Scourge was amongst them. But Nimrod had more current information, gleaned from conversations overheard and questions asked. At Chariot Street – he was able to report – no bodies had been found, so it might be safely assumed that Cal had not perished there. Remains had however been found in Rue Street.

‘I didn’t know any of them personally,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you did.’

‘Who?’

‘Balm de Bono.’

‘– de Bono?’

‘He was at Rue Street last night.’

She fell silent, thinking of the brief time she’d spent with de Bono, and of their debates together. Now he was gone. And how soon would the rest of them follow?

‘What do we do, Nimrod?’ she murmured. ‘Do we try and hide again? Another Weave?’

‘There aren’t enough of us to fill a prayer mat,’ Nimrod said mournfully. ‘Besides, we don’t have the raptures. There’s very little power left between us.’

‘So we sit back and wait for the Scourge to pick us off? Is that what you’re saying?’

Nimrod drew his hand over his face.

‘I’ve fought about as hard as I can …’ he said. ‘I think we all have.’

He fetched a tobacco tin from his pocket, and began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘I’ve made my mistakes,’ he said, ‘I fell for Shadwell’s lies … I even fell in love.’

‘You did?’

He made a slight smile, which reminded Suzanna of the irrepressible creature he’d once been. ‘Oh yes …’ he said. ‘… I’ve had my adventures in the Kingdom. But they didn’t last long. There was always a part of me that never left the
Fugue. That still
hasn’t
left.’ He lit the match-thin cigarette he’d rolled. ‘I suppose that’s ludicrous,’ he said, ‘given that the place doesn’t exist any longer.’

He’d forsaken his dark glasses as soon as the waiter had retired. His eyes, their gold untarnished, were on her now, looking for some sliver of hope.

‘You can remember it?’ she said.

‘The Fugue? Of course.’

‘So can I. Or at least I think I can. So maybe it isn’t lost.’

He shook his head.

‘Don’t be sentimental,’ he chided. ‘Memories aren’t enough.’

It was fruitless to argue the niceties of that: he was telling her that he was in pain; he didn’t want platitudes or metaphysics.

She turned over in her head the problem of whether she should tell him what she knew: that she had reason to hope that all was not lost; that the Fugue might
be
again, one day. It was, she knew, a slender hope – but he needed a life-line, however tenuous.

‘It’s not over,’ she said.

‘Dream on,’ he replied. ‘It’s finished.’

‘I tell you the Fugue’s not gone.’

He looked up from his cigarette.

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the Gyre … I used the Loom.’

‘
Used
the Loom? What are you saying?’

‘Or
it
used
me.
Maybe a bit of both.’

‘How? Why?’

‘To keep everything from being lost.’

Nimrod was leaning across the table now.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Neither do I, fully,’ she replied. ‘But something happened. Some force …’

She sighed. She didn’t have the words to describe those moments. Part of her wasn’t even sure it had happened. But of one thing she was certain:

‘I don’t believe in defeat, Nimrod. I don’t care what this fucking Scourge is. I won’t lie down and die because of it.’

‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘You’re a Cuckoo. You can walk the other way.’

‘You should know better than that,’ she said, sharply. ‘The Fugue belongs to anyone who’ll die for it. Me … Cal…’

He looked chastened.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not just you who needs the Fugue, Nimrod. We all do.’

She glanced towards the window. Through the bamboo blinds she could see that the snow was coming down again with fresh vehemence, ‘I never believed in Eden,’ she said softly. ‘Not the way the Bible tells it. Original sin and all that crap. But maybe the story’s got an echo somewhere in it.’

‘An echo?’

‘Of the way things really were. A place of miracles, where magic was made. And the Scourge ended up believing the Eden story, because it was a corrupted version of the truth.’

‘Does it matter?’ Nimrod sighed. ‘Whether the Scourge is an Angel or not; whether it comes from Eden, or not, how does that alter anything? The point is, it
believes
it’s Uriel. And that means it’ll destroy us.’

The point was incontestable. When the world was coming to an end, what did names matter?

‘I think we should be together,’ he said, after a pause, ‘instead of spread across the country. Perhaps we can muster something if we’re all in one place.’

‘I see the sense in that.’

‘Better than the Scourge picking us off!’

‘But where?’

‘There was a place …’ he said, ‘where it never came. I remember it vaguely. Apolline will tell us better.’

‘What kind of place?’

‘A hill, I think it was,’ he said, his unblinking stare on the white paper tablecloth between them. ‘Some kind of hill …’

‘We’ll go there then, shall we?’