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Part Seven. The Demagogue

‘All rising to great place is by a winding stair.'

Sir Francis Bacon

Essays

THE MESSENGER

Spring was late that year, the March days murky, the nights frost-bitten. It sometimes seemed winter would never end; that the world would go on like this, grey upon grey, until entropy claimed its little life entirely.

The weeks brought bad times for Suzanna and Jerichau. It wasn't Hobart that caused them: indeed she even got to thinking that a reminder of their jeopardy might usefully shake them from their complacency.

But, while she suffered from lethargy and ennui, Jerichau's response to these weeks was in its way far more alarming. The pleasure he took in the inconsequentia of the Kingdom, which had been a source of amusement to them both, now took on the quality of an obsession. He lost entirely his capacity for stillness, which had initially drawn her to him. Now he was full of spurious energy, spouting advertising catch-phrases and jingles which he soaked up - Babu that he was - like a sponge, his talk an imitation of the flipness of television detectives and game-show hosts. They argued often, sometimes bitterly; he'd more often than not walk out in the middle of such exchanges, as if anger were not worth his sweat, only to return with some booty - usually drink - which he'd consume in sullen solitude if he couldn't get Suzanna to join him.

She tried to satisfy his restlessness by keeping them on the move, but it only exacerbated the disease. Privately she began to despair, as she pictured history repeating itself two generations on, with her cast in Mimi's role.

And then, not a moment too soon, the weather began to improve, and her spirits started to rise. She even dared entertain the hope that the chase had actually stopped; their pursuers given up and gone home. In a month or so, perhaps, they could with some confidence go in search of a haven to begin the unweaving again.

But then came the glad tidings.

They were in a small town outside Coventry, rejoicing in the name of Fatherless Barn; as good a reason as any to be there. The day being bright, and the sun almost warm, they'd decided to risk leaving the carpet in storage at the boarding house they'd found, and take the air together.

Jerichau had just emerged from a confectioner's, his pockets full of white chocolate, his current passion, when somebody brushed past Suzanna, saying: ‘Left and left', then hurried on without looking back.

Jerichau had heard the words too, and he instantly followed both stranger and instructions. She called after him, but he wasn't about to be waylaid. He turned left at the first intersection. Suzanna went in pursuit, cursing his indiscretion, which had already drawn some attention. Left and left again brought her into the narrowest of streets, where the sun surely seldom came. There Jerichau was embracing the stranger like a long lost brother.

It was Nimrod.

‘You were so difficult to find,' he said, when they returned to the seclusion of the boarding house, taking a dog's leg so that Jerichau could steal a bottle of celebratory champagne. ‘I almost caught up with you in Hull, then lost you. But somebody remembered you at your hotel. Said you'd got drunk, Jerichau, is that right? And been helped to bed.'. ‘Could be,' said Jerichau. ‘Anyhow, here I am, and with great news.' ‘What?' said Suzanna. ‘We're going back home. Very soon.' ‘How do you know?' ‘Capra says so.'

‘Capra?' said Jerichau. It was enough to make him neglect his glass. ‘How can that be?'

The Prophet says so. It's all planned. Capra speaks to him -' ‘Wait. Wait!' said Suzanna. ‘What Prophet?' ‘He says we have to spread the word,' said Nimrod, his enthusiasm boundless. ‘Find the ones who left the Weave, and tell them liberation's at hand. I've been all over, doing just that. It was by chance I got wind of you. What luck, eh? Nobody knew where you were -'

‘And that was the way it was meant to stay,' said Suzanna. ‘I was to make contact in my time, when ,'judged the trail had grown cold.'

‘It is cold,' said Nimrod. ‘Stone cold. Surely you must have noticed that?' Suzanna kept her silence. ‘Our enemies have given up the chase,' he went on. ‘The Prophet knows that. He tells us what Capra says, and Capra says our Suppression is at an end.'

‘Who is this Prophet?' said Suzanna. Nimrod's excited flow ceased. He frowned as he stared at her.

The Prophet is the Prophet,' he said. No further explanation was necessary, it seemed.

‘You don't even know his name?' she said.

‘He lived near the Gyre,' said Nimrod. That much I do know. A hermit, he was, until the weaving. That night, last summer, Capra called him. He left the Weave, to begin his teachings. The tyranny of the Cuckoos is nearly at an end -'

‘I'll believe that when I see it,' said Suzanna.

‘You will,' said Nimrod, with the unshakeable fervour of a true convert. This time, the earth will rise with us. That's

what people are saying. The Cuckoos have made too much mischief. Their Age is over.'

‘Sounds like wish-fulfilment to me.'

‘You may doubt -' said Nimrod.

‘I do.'

‘- but I've seen the Prophet. I've heard his words. And they come from Capra.' His eyes glittered with evangelical glee. ‘I was in the gutter when the Prophet found me. Broken in pieces. Prey to every Cuckoo sickness. Then I heard the Prophet's voice, and went to him. Now look at me.'

Suzanna had argued with zealots before - her brother had been bom again at twenty-three, and given his life to Christ - she knew from experience there was no gainsaying the bigotry of faith. Indeed there was part of her wanted to join the happy throng of believers Nimrod described; throw off the burden of the carpet and let the Fugue begin its life afresh. She was weary of being afraid to meet anybody's eye, of forever passing through. Any pleasure she might have taken in being an outsider, possessed of a wonderful secret, had long since soured. Now she wanted to have her fingers in clay again, or sit flirting with friends. But tempting as it was, she couldn't accept this cant and be silent. It stank.

‘How do you know he doesn't mean us all harm?' she said.

‘Harm? What harm is there in being free? You have to give the Weave back, Suzanna. I'll take you to him -' He snatched hold of her hand as he spoke, as if he was prepared to do it now. She pulled her fingers from his grip.

‘What's the problem?' he said.

‘I'm not just going to give the carpet up because you heard the Word,' she said fiercely.

‘You must,' he said, as much disbelief as anger in his tone.

‘When does this Prophet speak again?' said Jerichau.

‘The day after tomorrow,' Nimrod replied, his eyes still on Suzanna. The chase is over,' he said to her. ‘You must give the carpet back.'

‘And if I don't, he'll come and get it?' she said. ‘Is that the implication?'

‘You Cuckoos -' Nimrod sighed. ‘Always making things so damn difficult. He's come to give us Capra's wisdom. Why can't you see that?' He halted a moment. When he spoke again he'd modulated his strident tone. ‘I respect your doubts,' he said. ‘But you must understand the situation's changed.'

‘I think we should see this Prophet for ourselves,' said Jerichau. He cast a glance at Suzanna. ‘Yes?'

She nodded.

‘Yes!' Nimrod grinned. ‘Yes, he'll make everything clear to you.'

She longed for that promise to be made true. ‘The day after tomorrow,' said Nimrod. ‘There'll be an end to chases.'

SEEING THE LIGHT

That night, with Nimrod gone, and Jerichau sleeping off his champagne, she did something she'd never done before. She evoked the menstruum, simply for company. It had shown her many sights in recent weeks, and it had saved her from Hobart and his malice, but she was still suspicious of its power. She still couldn't quite work out whether she controlled it, or vice versa. Tonight, however, she decided that that was a Cuckoo's way of thinking, always making divisions: the viewer from the viewed; the peach from the taste it left on the tongue.

Such compartments were useful only as tools. At some point they had to be left behind. For better or worse, she was the menstruum, and the menstruum was her. She and it, indivisible.

Bathing in its silver light, her thoughts turned again to Mimi, who'd lived a life of waiting, her years growing dusty while she hoped for a miracle that was too late in coming. Thinking of that, she began to cry, quietly.

Not quietly enough, for she woke Jerichau. She heard his footsteps outside, then his tapping on the bathroom door.

‘Lady?' he said. It was the name he only used when there was an apology in the air. ‘I'm all right,' she said.

She had neglected to lock the door, and he pushed it open. He was dressed only in the long vest he always slept in. Seeing her misery, his face dropped.

‘Why so sad?' he asked.

‘It's all wrong,' were the only words she could find to express her confusion.

Jerichau's eyes had found the dregs of the menstruum, which moved across the floor between them, their brightness flickering out as they left her immediate vicinity. He kept a respectful distance.

Til go to the meeting place with Nimrod,' he said. ‘You stay with the Weave. Yes?' ‘Suppose they demand it?'

‘Then we'll have to decide,' he said. ‘But we shall see this Prophet first. He could be a charlatan.' He paused, not looking at her, but at the empty floor between them. ‘A lot of us are,' he said after a moment. ‘Me, for instance.'

She stared at him as he loitered in the doorway. It wasn't the dying glamour of the menstruum that kept him at bay, she now realized. She spoke his name, very quietly. ‘Not you,' she said. ‘Oh yes,' he replied. There was another aching silence. Then he said: ‘I'm sorry, lady.' ‘There's nothing to be sorry for.'

‘I failed you,' he said. ‘I wanted to be so much to you, and look how I failed.'

She stood up and went to him. His misery was so heavy he could not raise his head beneath its weight. She took hold of his hand and held it tight.

‘I couldn't have survived these months without you,' she said. ‘You've been my dearest friend.'

‘Friend,' he said, his voice small. ‘I never wanted to be your friend.'

She felt his hand tremble in hers, and the sensation brought back their adventure on Lord Street, when she'd held him in the crowd, and shared his visions, his terrors. Since then, they'd shared a bed as well, and it had been pleasurable, but little more. She'd been too obsessed with the beasts on their heels to think of much else; both too close and too distant from him to see how he suffered. She saw it now, and it frightened her.

‘I love you, lady,' he murmured, his throat almost swallowing the words before they were said. Then he extricated his hand from hers and retreated from her. She went after him. The room was dark, but there was sufficient illumination to etch his anxious face, his jittering limbs.

‘I didn't understand,' she said, and reached out to touch his face.

Not since the first night they'd met had she thought of him as unhuman; his hunger to soak up the trivialities of the Kingdom had further obscured that fact. Now she remembered it. Saw before her another species; another history. The thought made her heart pound. He sensed - or saw - the arousal in her, and his earlier hesitancy evaporated. He took a half step towards her, until his tongue could run along her lips. She opened her mouth to taste him, embracing him as she did so. The mystery embraced her in return.

Their previous coupling had been comforting, but unremarkable. Now - as though released by the statement of his love - he took a new lead, undressing her almost ritualistically, kissing her over and over and between the kisses whispering words in a language he must have known she couldn't understand, but which he spoke in a voice of infinite dexterity so that, uncomprehending, she understood. It was his love he spoke; erotic rhymes and promises; words that were the shape of his desire.

His phallus, a word; his semen, a word; her cunt, which he poured his poems into, a dozen words or more.

She closed her eyes and felt his recital consuming her. She answered him, in her way, sighs and nonsenses that found their place in the swell of his magic. When her eyes flickered open again she found the exchange had ignited the very air about them, their words - and the feelings they conveyed -writing a lexicon of light which flattered their nakedness.

It was as if the room was suddenly filled with lanterns, made of smoke and paper. They drifted up on the heat of their makers' bodies, their lights bringing every part of the room to exquisite life. She saw the tightly curled hairs he'd shed on the pillow, describing their own alphabet; saw the simple weave of the sheet extolled; saw everywhere a subtle intercourse of form with form: the walls' congress with the space they contained; the curtains' passion for the window; the chair for the coat that lay upon it, and the shoes beneath.

But mostly she saw him, and he was a wonder.

She caught the minute fluctuations of his iris when his gaze moved from the darkness of her hair to the pillow upon which it was spread; saw the pulse of his heart in the corrugation of his lips, and at his throat. The skin of his chest had an almost eerie smoothness to it, but was deeply muscled; his arms were sinewy, and would not countenance unbinding her a moment, but held her as tight as she held him. There was no show of machismo in this possessiveness, only an urgency which she more than equalled.

Outside, darkness was upon the hemisphere, but they were bright.

And though he had no breath for words now, their tenderness fuelled the lights that cradled them, and they didn't dim, but echoed the lovers - marrying colour to colour, light to light, until the room blazed.

They loved, and slept, and loved again, and the words kept vigil around them, mellowing their show to a soothing flicker as sleep came a second time.

When she woke the next morning, and opened the curtains on another anxious day, she remembered the previous night as a vision of pure spirit.

‘I was beginning to forget, lady,' he said that day. ‘You kept what you were doing clear in your head. But I was letting it slip. The Kingdom is so strong. It can take your mind away.'

‘You wouldn't have forgotten,' she said.

He touched her face, ran his finger-tip down the rim of her ear.

‘Not you.'

Later, he said:

‘I wish you could come with me to see the Prophet.'

‘I do too; but it's not wise.'

‘I know.'

‘I'll be here, Jerichau.'

That'll make me quick.'

Ill

CHARISMA

Nimrod was waiting for him at the rendezvous they'd arranged two days before. It seemed to Jerichau his fervour had intensified in the intervening time.

‘It's going to be the biggest meeting so far...' he said. ‘Our numbers are growing all the time. The day's at hand, Jerichau. Our people are ready and waiting.' ‘I'll believe it when I see it.'

See it he did.

As evening fell Nimrod took him by an elaborate route to a vast ruin of a building, far from any sign of human habitation. The place had been a foundry in its prime; but its heroic scale had doomed it when times got leaner. Now its walls would supposedly see the kindling of another heat entirely.

As they drew closer, it became apparent that there were lights burning in the interior, but there was no sound or sign of the immense gathering Nimrod had promised. A few solitary figures lurked amongst the rubble of service buildings; otherwise the place seemed to be deserted.

Once through the door, however, Jerichau faced the first shock of a night that would bring many: the vast building was filled to capacity with hundreds of the Kind. He saw members of every Root, Babu and Ye-me, Lo and Aia; he saw old men and women, he saw babes in arms. Some he knew had been in the Weave at the beginning, and had apparently elected the previous summer to try their luck in the Kingdom; others he guessed were descendants of those who'd rejected the Weave at the outset; they had a look about them which marked them out as strangers to their homeland. Many of them stood quite separately from their fellow devotees, as if nervous of rejection.

It was disorienting to see physiognomies that carried the subtle signature of his fellow Seerkind primped and painted a la mode; Seerkind dressed in jeans and leather jackets, in print dresses and high heels. To judge by their condition many of them had survived well enough in the Kingdom; perhaps even prospered. Yet they were here. A whisper of liberation had found them in their hiding places amongst the Cuckoos, and they'd come, bringing their children and their prayers. Kind who could only know of the Fugue from rumour and hearsay, drawn by the hope of seeing a place their hearts had never forgotten.

Despite his initial cynicism, he could not help but be moved by this silent and expectant multitude.

‘I told you,' Nimrod whispered, as he led Jerichau through the throng. ‘We'll get as close as we can, eh?'

At the end of the vast hall a rostrum had been set up, littered with flowers. Lights hovered in the air, Babu raptures, throwing a flickering luminescence on the stage beneath.

‘He'll come soon,' said Nimrod.

Jerichau didn't doubt it. Even now there was some movement at the far end of the hall; several figures, dressed in the same dark blue, were ordering the crowd a few yards back from the vicinity of the rostrum. The devotees obeyed the instruction without question.

‘Who are they?' said Jerichau, nodding towards the uniformed figures.

‘The Prophet's Elite,' Nimrod returned. They're with him night and day. To keep him from harm.'

Jerichau had no time to ask any further questions. A door was opening in the bare brick wall at the back of the platform, a tremor of excitement passing through the hall. The congre-

gation started to surge towards the platform. The swell of emotion was contagious; try as he might to keep his critical faculties sharp Jerichau found his heart pounding with excitement.

One of the Elite had appeared through the open door, carrying a plain wooden chair. This he set at the front of the platform. The crowd was pressing at Jerichau's back; he was hemmed in to right and left. Every face but his was turned towards the stage. Some had tears on their cheeks: the tension of waiting had been too much. Others were speaking silent prayers.

And now, two more Elite stepped through the door, parting to reveal a figure in pale yellow, the sight of whom brought a tide of sound from the crowd. It was not the jubilant shout of welcome Jerichau had been anticipating, but an intensification of the murmur that had begun a while earlier; a soft, yearning sound which stirred the gut.

Above the platform, the floating flames became brighter. The murmur grew in depth and resonance. Jerichau had to make a fierce effort not to join in.

The lights had reached a white heat, but the Prophet did not step forward and bathe in this blaze of glory. He hung back at the edge of the pool, teasing the crowd, which begged him with their moans to show himself. Still he resisted; still they summoned him, their wordless prayers growing feverish.

Only after three or four minutes of this holding back did he consent to answer their appeal, and step into the light. He was a sizeable man - a fellow Babu, Jerichau guessed - but some infirmity slowed his footsteps. His features were benign, even slightly effeminate; his hair, fine as a baby's, was a white mane.

Reaching the chair, he sat down - apparently with some pain - and surveyed the gathering. Little by little the murmuring grew softer. He did not speak, however, until it had ceased entirely. And when he did speak it was not with the voice Jerichau had expected from a Prophet: strident, possessed. It was a small, musical voice; its tone gentle, even hesitant.

‘My friends ...' he said. ‘We're assembled here in the name of Capra

‘Capra ...' The name was whispered from wall to wall.

‘I've heard Capra's words. They say the time is very, very close.' He spoke, Jerichau thought, almost reluctantly, as though he were the vessel of this knowledge, but far from comfortable with it.

‘If there are many doubters amongst you -' the Prophet said,'- prepare to shed your doubts.'

Nimrod cast Jerichau a glance as if to say: he means you.

‘We are greater by the day...' the Prophet said. ‘Capra's word is everywhere finding its way to the forgotten and the forgetful. It stirs the sleeping into wakefulness. It makes the dying dance.' He spoke very quietly, letting the rhetoric substitute for volume. His congregation attended like children. ‘Very soon we'll be home,' he said. ‘We'll be back amongst our loved ones, walking where our mothers and fathers walked. We won't have to hide any longer. This Capra tells us. We will rise, my friends. Rise and be bright.'

There were barely stifled sobs from around the hall. He heard them, and hushed them with an indulgent smile.

‘No need to weep,' he said. ‘I see an end to weeping. An end to waiting.'

‘Yes,' said the crowd, as one. ‘Yes. Yes.'

Jerichau felt the swell of affirmation picking him up. He had no desire to resist. He was a part of these people wasn't he? Their tragedy was his tragedy; and their longing his too.

‘Yes ...' he found himself saying, ‘yes ... yes.'

At his side Nimrod said: ‘Now do you believe?' then joined the chant himself.

The Prophet raised his gloved hands to subdue the voices. It took longer for the crowd to be hushed this time, but when the Prophet spoke again his voice was stronger, as though nourished by this display of fellow-feeling.

‘My friends. Capra loves peace as we all love it, but let us not deceive ourselves. We have enemies. Enemies amongst Humankind, and yes, amongst our own Kind too. There are many who have cheated us. Conspired with the Cuckoos to keep our lands in sleep. This Capra has seen, with his own eyes. Treachery and lies, my friends; everywhere.' He bowed his head a moment, as if the effort of those words was close to defeating him. ‘What shall we do?' he said, his voice despairing.

‘Lead us!' somebody shouted.

The Prophet raised his head at this, his face troubled.

‘I can only show you the way,' he protested.

But the cry had been taken up by others around the hall, and was growing.

‘Lead us!' they called to him. ‘Lead us!'

Slowly, the Prophet got to his feet. Again, he raised his hands to silence the congregation, but this time they would not be subdued so readily.

‘Please -' he said, obliged for the first time to raise his voice. ‘Please. Listen to me!'

‘We'll follow you!' Nimrod was shouting. ‘We'll follow!'

Was it Jerichau's imagination, or had the lights above the platform begun to burn with fresh brilliance, the Prophet's hair a halo above his benevolent features? To judge by his expression the call to arms that rose from the floor distressed him; the vox populi wanted more than his vague promises.

‘Listen to me,' he appealed. ‘If you want me to lead you -'

‘Yes!' roared five hundred throats.

‘If that's what you want I have to warn you, it will not be easy. We would have to put away tenderness. We would have to be hard as stone. Blood will flow.'

His warning didn't chasten the crowd a jot. If anything it spurred their enthusiasm to new heights.

‘We must be cunning -' said the Prophet,'- as those who've conspired against us have been cunning.'

The crowd was raising the roof now, Jerichau along with them.

‘The Fugue calls us home!'

‘Home! Home!'

‘And its voice will not be denied. We must march!'

The door at the back of the platform had been opened a little, presumably so that the Prophet's entourage could hear the speech. Now a movement there caught Jerichau's eye. There was somebody in the doorway, whose shadowy face he seemed to know –

‘We will go into the Fugue together,' the Prophet was saying, his voice finally losing its frailty, its reluctance.

Jerichau looked past the speaker, trying to divide the watcher at the door from the darkness that concealed him.

‘We will take the Fugue back from our enemies in the name of Capra.'

The man Jerichau was watching moved a step, and for an instant a fugitive beam of light caught him. Jerichau's stomach convulsed as he silently put a name to the face he saw. It bore a smile, but he knew there was no humour in it, for its owner knew no humour. Or love either; or mercy -

‘Shout, my Kind! Shout!'

It was Hobart.

‘Make them hear us, in their sleep. Hear us and fear our judgment!'

There could be no doubt of it. The time Jerichau had spent in the Inspector's company was burned into his memory forever. Hobart it was.

The voice of the Prophet was finding new strength with every syllable. Even his face seemed to have altered in some subtle fashion. Any sham of kindliness had been dropped; it was all righteous fury now.

‘Spread the word -' he was saying. The exiles are returning!'

Jerichau watched the performance with fresh eyes, keeping up a pretence of enthusiasm, while questions fretted his thumping head.

Chief amongst them: who was this man, stirring the Kind with promises of Deliverance? A hermit, as Nimrod had described him, an innocent, being used by Hobart for his own ends? That was the best hope. The worst, that he and Hobart were in cahoots; a conspiracy of Kind and Humankind, created with what could only be one intention: possessing and perhaps destroying the Fugue.

The voices around him were deafening, but Jerichau was no longer buoyed up by this tide, he was drowning in it. They were fodder, these people; Hobart's dupes. It made him sick to think of it.

‘Be ready,' the Prophet was telling the assembly. ‘Be ready. The hour is near.'

With that promise, the lights above the platform went out. When they came on again, moments later, the voice of Capra had gone, leaving an empty chair and a congregation ready to follow him wherever he chose to lead them.

There were cries from around the hall for him to speak to them again, but the door at the back of the stage was closed and not reopened. Gradually, realizing they wouldn't persuade their leader to appear again, the crowd began to disperse.

‘Didn't I tell you?' said Nimrod. He stank of sweat, as did they all. ‘Didn't I say?'

‘Yes, you did.'

Nimrod seized hold of Jerichau's arm.

‘Come with me now,' he said, eyes gleaming. ‘We'll go to the Prophet. We'll tell him where the carpet is.'

‘Now?'

‘Why not? Why give our enemies any more time to prepare themselves?'

Jerichau had vaguely anticipated this exchange. He had his excuses prepared.

‘Suzanna must be persuaded of the wisdom of this,' he said. ‘I can best do that. She trusts me.'

‘Then I'll come with you.'

‘No. I'll do it alone.'

Nimrod looked wary; perhaps even suspicious.

‘I watched over you once,' Jerichau reminded him, ‘when you were a babe in arms.' This was his ace card. ‘Remember that?'

Nimrod couldn't keep a smile from his face. ‘Such times,' he said.

‘You're going to have to trust me the way you trusted me then,' Jerichau said. He didn't much like the deception, but this was no time for ethical niceties. ‘Let me go to Suzanna, and together we'll bring the carpet here. Then we can all go to the Prophet; the three of us.' ‘Yes,' said Nimrod. ‘I suppose there's sense in that.' They walked to the door together. The throng of devotees was already dispersing into the night. Jerichau made his farewells and his promises to Nimrod, and headed away. When he'd gained sufficient cover of distance and darkness, he made a long arc around the building, and headed back towards it.

AS GOOD MEN GO

It began to rain while he kept watch at the rear of the foundry, but after twenty minutes his waiting was rewarded. A door opened, and two of the Prophet's Elite Guard emerged. So eager were they for the shelter of their car - there were several parked behind the building - that they left the door behind them ajar. Jerichau lingered in the shelter of the dripping undergrowth until they'd driven away, then crossed at speed to the door, and stepped inside.

He was in a dirty, brick-lined corridor, off which several small passageways ran. A lamp burned at the end of the corridor where he stood; the rest of the place was in darkness.

Once away from the outside door - and the sound of the rain - he could hear voices. He followed them, the passageway becoming darker as he left the vicinity of the bulb. Words came and went.

‘... the smell of them ...' somebody said. There was laughter. Using it as cover, Jerichau moved more swiftly towards the sound. Now another light, albeit dim, reached his straining eyes.

They're making a fool of you,' a second voice said. It was Hobart who replied.

‘We're close, I tell you,' he said. ‘I'll have her.' ‘Never mind the woman ...' came the response. The voice was perhaps that of the Prophet, though it had changed timbre.

‘... I want the carpet. All the armies in the world are worth fuck-all if we've got nothing to conquer.'

The vocabulary was less circumspect than his words from the platform had been: there was no reluctance to lead the army here; no false modesty. Jerichau pressed close to the door from beyond which the voices came.

‘Get this filth off me will you?' said the Prophet. ‘It smothers me.'

No sooner had he spoken than all conversation on the other side of the door abruptly ceased. Jerichau held his breath, fearful he was missing some whispered exchange. But he could hear nothing.

Then, the Prophet again.

‘We shouldn't have secrets ...' he said, apparently apropos of nothing. ‘Seeing is believing, don't they say.'

At this, the door was flung wide. Jerichau had no chance to retreat, but stumbled forward into the room. He was instantly seized by Hobart, who wrenched his captive's arm behind his back until the bones threatened to snap, at the same time seizing Jerichau's head so hard he could not move it.

‘You were right,' said the Prophet. He was standing stark naked in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms spread wide, the sweat dripping from him. A bare bulb threw its uncharitable light upon his pale flesh, from which steam rose.

‘I can sniff them out,' said a voice Jerichau recognized, and the Incantatrix Immacolata stepped into his line of vision. Despite his situation the terrible maiming of her face gave him some satisfaction. Harm had been done to this creature. That was cause for rejoicing.

‘How long were you listening?' the Prophet asked Jerichau. ‘Did you hear anything interesting? Do tell.'

Jerichau looked back towards the man. Three members of the Elite were working about his body, wiping him down with towels. It wasn't just his sweat they were removing; parts of his flesh - at the neck and shoulders, on the arms and hands — were coming away too. This was the smothering filth Jerichau had heard him complain of; he was sloughing off the skin of the Prophet. The air was rank with the stench of venomous raptures: the corrupt magic of the Incantatrix.

‘Answer the man,' said Hobart, twisting Jerichau's arm to within a fraction of breaking.

‘I heard nothing,' Jerichau gasped.

The steaming man snatched a towel from one of his attendants.

‘Jesus,' he said, as he rubbed at his face. This stuff is a trial.'

Pieces of flesh fell from beneath the towel, and hit the floor, hissing. He threw the dirtied towel down with them, and looked back up at Jerichau. Remnants of the illusion clung to his features here and there, but the actor beneath was quite recognizable: Shadwell the Salesman, naked as the day he was born. He tore off the white wig he'd worn, and tossed that down too, then snapped his fingers. A cigarette, already lit, was placed in his hand. He drew on it deeply, wiping a glob of ectoplasm from beneath his eye with the ball of his hand.

‘Were you at the meeting?' he asked.

‘Of course he was,' Immacolata said, but she was silenced with a sharp look from Shadwell. He pulled at his foreskin, quite unselfconsciously.

‘Was I good?' he said. ‘No, no, of course I was,'

He peered at his pudenda over his shiny gut. ‘Who the fuck are you?' he said.

Jerichau kept his mouth shut.

‘I asked you a question,' said Shadwell. He put the cigarette between his lips and spread his arms, so that his dressers could finish his toilet. They proceeded to towel the remaining ectoplasm from his face and body, then began to powder his bulk.

‘I know him,' said Hobart.

‘Do you indeed?'

‘He's the woman's partner. He's with Suzanna,'

‘Really?' said Shadwell. ‘Did you come to make a sale, is that it? See what we'd pay you for her?'

‘I haven't seen her .. ,' Jerichau said.

‘Oh yes you have,' said Shadwell. ‘And you're going to tell us where to find her.'

Jerichau closed his eyes. Oh Gods, make this end, he thought; don't let me suffer. I'm not strong. I'm not strong.

‘It won't take long,' Shadwell murmured.

‘Tell him,' said Hobart. Jerichau cried out as his bones creaked.

‘Stop that!' Shadwell said. The grip relaxed a little. ‘Keep your brutalities out of my sight,' said the Salesman. His voice rose. ‘Understand me?' he said. ‘Do you? Do you understand?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Shadwell grunted, then turned to Immacolata, his sudden fury just as suddenly dissipated.

‘I think your sisters might enjoy him,' he said. ‘Get them here, will you?'

The Incantatrix uttered a summons, which came from her misshapen lips like breath on an icy morning. Shadwell returned his attention to Jerichau, speaking as he dressed.

‘There's more than pain to be suffered,' he said lightly, ‘if you don't tell me where I may find the carpet.'

He hoisted up his trousers, and buttoned up the fly, throwing an occasional glance in Jerichau's direction.

‘What are you waiting for?' he said to the prisoner. ‘Some bargain or other?'

He put on his tie, while his attenders tied his shoe-laces.

‘You'll wait a long time, my friend. I don't barter these days. I don't offer treats. My days as a Salesman are numbered.'

He took the jacket from his attendant, and slipped it on. The lining shimmered. Its powers were familiar to Jerichau from Suzanna's stories; but it seemed Shadwell had no desire to win a confession from him by that means.

‘Tell me where the carpet can be found,' he said, ‘or the sisters and their children will undo you nerve by nerve. Not a difficult choice, I would have thought.'

Jerichau made no reply.

There was a chill wind from the corridor.

‘Ah, the ladies,' said Shadwell; and Death flew in at the door.

THE HOURS PASS

And still he didn't return.

It was three-thirty in the morning. She had stood by the window as the hour grew late; watched drunkards brawl, and two unlikely whores ply their desperate trade, until a police vehicle cruised by and they were either arrested or hired. Now the street was deserted, and all she had to watch were the lights changing at the crossroads - green, red, amber, green - without a vehicle passing in either direction. And still he didn't return.

She turned over a variety of explanations. That the meeting was still going on, and he couldn't slip away without arousing suspicion; that he'd found friends amongst the audience, and was talking over old times with them. That this; that that. But none of her excuses quite convinced her. Something was wrong. She and the menstruum both knew it.

They had made no contingency plans, which was stupid. How could they have been so stupid, she asked herself over and over. Now she was left pacing the narrow room not knowing what to do for the best; not wanting to leave in case he returned the minute after and discovered her gone, yet fearful of staying in case he'd been captured and was even now being beaten into telling them where she could be found. Time was she would have believed the best. Contented herself that he would come back in a while, and waited patiently for him. But experience had changed her view of things. Life was not that kind.

At four-fifteen she started to pack. The very fact that she'd accepted that something was amiss, that she and the Weave were in jeopardy, made the adrenalin flow. At four-thirty she began to take the carpet downstairs. It was a lengthy and cumbersome business, but in recent months she'd shed every ounce of fat, and in the process discovered muscles she'd never known she had. And again the menstruum was with her, a body of will and light that made possible in minutes what should have taken hours.

Even so there was a hint of dawn in the sky by the time she threw their bags (she had packed for him too) into the back of the car. He would not come back now, she told herself. Something had detained him, and if she wasn't quick it would detain her too.

Fighting tears, she drove away, leaving another unpaid bill behind her.

It might have given Suzanna some small satisfaction if she could have seen the look on Hobart's face when, less than twenty minutes after her departure, he arrived at the hotel the prisoner had named.

He'd spilled a good deal while the beasts had their way with him: blood and words in equal measure. But the words were incoherent; a babble from which Hobart wrestled to extract any sense. There was talk of the Fugue, of course, amongst the sobs and the bleatings; and of Suzanna too. Oh my lady, he kept saying, oh my lady; then fresh sobbing. Hobart let him weep, and bleed, and weep some more, until the man was near to death. Then he asked the simple question: where is your lady? And the fool answered, his mind past knowing who asked the question, or indeed if he'd answered it.

And here, in the place the man had spoken of, Hobart now stood. But where was the woman of his dreams? Where was Suzanna7 Gone again: flitted away, leaving the door-handle warm and the threshold still mourning her shadow.

It had been very close this time, though. He'd almost taken her. How long before he had her mystery netted, once and for all, her silver light between his fingers? Hours. Days at the most.

‘Nearly mine,' he said to himself. He clutched the book of faery-tales close to his chest, so that none of its words could slip away, then left his lady's chamber to go whip up the hunt.

HELLO, STRANGER

She hated leaving the city, knowing she was also leaving Jerichau behind somewhere, but whatever she felt for him - and that was a difficulty in itself - she knew better than to linger. She had to go, and go quickly.

But alone? How long would she, could she, survive like this? A car, a carpet and woman who sometimes was not even certain she was human ...

She had friends around the country, and relatives too, but none she knew well enough to really trust. Besides, they'd ask questions, inevitably, and there was no part of this story she'd dare begin to explain. She thought about going back to London; to the flat in Battersea, where her old life - Finnegan and his out of season Valentines, the pots, the damp in the bathroom - would be waiting for her. But again there would be questions, and more questions. She needed the company of someone who would simply accept her, silence and all. It had to be Cal.

Thinking of him, her spirits lightened. His eager grin came to mind, his soft eyes, his softer words. There was probably more danger in seeking him out than in returning to London, but she was tired of calculating risks.

She would do what her instincts told her to do; and her instincts said:

‘Cal?'

There was a long silence at the other end of the telephone line, when she thought contact had been broken.

‘Cal, are you there?'

Then he said: ‘Suzanna?'

‘Yes. It's me.'

‘Suzanna.'

She felt tears close, hearing him speak her name.

‘I have to see you, Cal.'

‘Where are you?'

‘In the middle of the city. Near some monument of Queen Victoria.'

‘The end of Castle Street.'

‘If you say so. Can I see you? It's very urgent.'

‘Yes, of course. I'm not far from there. I'll slip away now. Meet you on the steps in ten minutes.'

He was there in seven, dressed in a charcoal-grey work suit, collar turned up against the drizzle, one of a hundred similar young men - accountant's clerks and junior managers -she'd seen pass by as she waited under Victoria's imperious gaze.

He did not embrace her, nor even touch her. He simply came to a halt two yards from where she stood, and looked at her with a mixture of pleasure and puzzlement, and said:

‘Hello.'

The rain was coming on more heavily by the moment.

‘Shall we talk in the car?' she said. ‘I don't like to leave the carpet on its own.'

At the mention of the carpet, the puzzled look on his face intensified, but he said nothing.

In his head Cal had a vague image of himself rummaging through a dirty warehouse for a carpet, this carpet presumably - but his grasp on the whole story was slippery.

The car was parked in Water Street, a stone's throw from the monument. The rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the vehicle as they sat side by side.

Her precious cargo, which she'd been so loath to leave, was stored in the back of the car, doubled up and roughly covered with a sheet. Try as he might, he still couldn't get a fix on why the carpet was so important to her; or indeed why this woman - with whom he could only remember spending a few hours - was so important to him. Why had the sound of her voice on the telephone brought him running? Why had his stomach begun churning at the sight of her? It was absurd and frustrating, to feel so much and know so little.

Things would become clear, he reassured himself, once they began to talk.

But he was wrong in that assumption. The more they talked, the more bewildered he became.

‘I need your help,' she said to him. ‘I can't explain everything - we haven't got time now - but apparently there's some kind of Prophet appeared, promising a returning to the Fugue. Jerichau went to one of the meetings, and he didn't come back -'

‘Wait,' said Cal, hands up to stem the rush of information. ‘Hold on a moment. I'm not following this. Jerichau?'

‘You remember Jerichau,' she said.

It was an unusual name, not easily forgotten. But he could put no face to it.

‘Should I know him?' he said.

‘Good God, Cal -'

To be honest... a lot of things ... are blurred.'

‘You remember me well enough.'

‘Yes. Of course. Of course I do.'

‘And Nimrod. And Apolline. The night in the Fugue.'

She could see even before he murmured ‘No' that he remembered nothing. Perhaps there was a natural process at work here; a means by which the mind dealt with experiences that contradicted a lifetime's prejudices about the nature of reality. People simply forgot.

‘I have strange dreams,' Cal said, his face full of confusion.

‘What sort of dreams?'

He shook his head. He knew his vocabulary would prove woefully inadequate.

‘It's hard to describe,' he said. ‘Like I'm a child, you know? Except that I'm not. Walking somewhere I've never been. Not lost, though. Oh shit -' He gave up, angered by his fumblings. ‘I can't describe it.'

‘We were there once,' she told him calmly. ‘You and I. We were there. What you're dreaming about exists, Cal.'

He stared at her for long moments. The confusion didn't leave his face, but it was mellowed now by the smallest of smiles.

‘Exists?' he said.

‘Oh yes. Truly.'

Tell me,' he said softly. ‘Please tell me.'

‘I don't know where to begin either.'

‘Try,' he said. ‘Please.' There was such a yearning in his eyes; such a need to know.

The carpet -' she began.

He glanced back at it. ‘Is it yours?' he asked.

She couldn't help but laugh.

‘No,' she said. The place you dream of... it's here. It's in this carpet.'

She could see incredulity sparring with his faith in her.

‘Here?' he said.

Sometimes she almost found it difficult to comprehend that fact herself, and she had an advantage over Cal, or even poor Jerichau: she had the menstruum as a touchstone of the miraculous. She didn't blame him for his doubt.

‘You have to trust me,' she said. ‘However impossible it sounds.'

‘I know this,' he said, his voice tight. ‘Somewhere in me, ,' know this.'

‘Of course you do. And you'll remember. I'll help you remember. But for now I need help from you,'

‘Yes. Whatever you want.'

There are people chasing me.'

‘Why? Who?'

‘I'll tell you about them, when we get the chance. The point is, they want to destroy the land you dream about, Cal. The world hidden in that carpet. The Fugue.'

‘You want to hide back at my place?'

She shook her head. ‘I risked a call there to get your work number. They could be waiting there already.'

‘Geraldine wouldn't tell them anything.'

‘I can't risk that.'

‘We could go to Deke's place, out in Kirkby. Nobody'll find us there.'

‘You trust him?'

‘Sure.'

She switched on the engine. ‘I'll drive,' she said. ‘You direct.'

They turned into James Street, the fury of the rain monsoonal now. They didn't get far. A few yards down the road the traffic had come to a halt.

Cal wound down his window, and ducked his head out to see what the problem was. It was difficult to be certain of anything through the curtain of rain, but there seemed to have been a collision, and the traffic was backing up behind it. A few of the more impatient drivers in the queue were attempting to nose their way out into the city-bound lane, and failing, thus adding to the confusion. Horns began to blare; one or two drivers got out of their cars, their coats as makeshift umbrellas, to see what was up.

Cal laughed quietly.

‘What's funny?' she asked him.

‘An hour ago I was sitting in the Claims Department up to my elbows in paperwork -'

‘Now you've got a fugitive for company.'

The deal's fine by me,' he grinned.

‘Why the hell aren't we moving?'

‘I'll go look,' he said, and before she could prevent him he was out of the car and threading his way through the maze of vehicles, pulling his jacket up in a vain attempt to keep the rain off his head.

She watched him go, her fingers drumming on the wheel. She didn't like this situation. She was too visible: and visible was vulnerable.

As Cal reached the opposite side of the street, her attention was claimed by a flash of blue lights in the wing mirror. She glanced round to see several police motor-cycles cruising along the queue towards the accident. Her heart jumped a beat.

She looked towards Cal, hoping he was on his way back, but he was still studying the traffic. Come on out of the rain, damn you, she willed him; I need you here.

There were more officers, these on foot, making their way up the street, and they were speaking to the occupants of each car. Diversionary advice, no doubt; innocent enough. All she had to do was keep smiling.

Up ahead, cars were beginning to move off. The riders were directing the traffic around an accident site, bringing a halt to the contrary flow to do so. She looked over towards Cal, who was staring off down the street. Should she get out of the car; call him back? As she weighed the options, an officer appeared at her side, rapping on the window. She wound it down.

‘Wait for the signal,' he told her. ‘And take it slowly.'

He stared at her, rain dripping off his helmet and his nose.

She offered a smile.

‘Fine,' she said. ‘I'll be careful.'

Though he'd delivered his instructions, he didn't move from the window, but stared at her.

‘I know your face,' he said.

‘Really?' she said, trying for light flirtatiousness, and missing by a mile.

‘What's your name?'

Before she had time to lie, one of the officers up ahead called to her interrogator. He stood up, giving her an opportunity to glance back in Cal's direction. He was standing on the edge of the pavement, staring across at the car. She made a small shake of her head, hoping he'd read her signal through the rain-blurred window. The officer caught her warning.

‘Something wrong?' he said.

‘No,' she told him. ‘Not at all.'

Another of the officers was approaching the car, shouting something over the din of rain and idling engines. The longer I stay here, she thought, the worse this is going to get; and she wrenched the wheel round. The officer at the window yelled for her to stop, but the die was cast. As the car bolted forward she chanced the briefest of glances in Cal's direction. She saw to her distress that he was engaged in trying to wind his way between the cars. Though she shouted his name, he was oblivious to her. She shouted again. Too late, he looked up; the officer in the front was running towards the car. He'd reached it before Cal was half way across the road. She had no choice but to make her escape, while she still had a prayer.

She accelerated, the officer in front of her throwing himself out of her path with inches to spare. There was no time to look back for Cal; she skirted the collision site at speed, hoping he'd used the diversion to pick up his heels and run.

She'd travelled no more than four hundred yards when she heard the sound of sirens rising behind her.

It took Cal half a dozen seconds to work out what had happened, and another two to curse his sloth. There was a moment of confusion, when none of the officers seemed certain whether to wait for instructions or give chase, during which pause Suzanna was away around the corner.

The officer who'd been at the car window instantly made his way in Cal's direction, his pace picking up with every step.

Cal pretended he hadn't seen the man, and began to walk speedily back up towards the monument. There was a shouted summons, and then the sound of pursuit. He ran, not looking behind him. His pursuer was heavily dressed against the rain; Cal was much lighter footed. He made a left into Lower Castle Street, and another onto Brunswick Street, then a right onto Drury Lane. The sirens had begun by now; the bikes were in pursuit of Suzanna.

On Water Street he chanced a backward glance. His pursuer was not in sight. He didn't slow his pace, however, until he'd put half a mile between himself and the police. Then he hailed himself a taxi and headed back to the house, his head full of questions, and of Suzanna's face. She'd come and gone too quickly; already he was mourning her absence.

In order to better hold onto her memory, he fumbled for the names she'd spoken; but damn it, they were gone already.

VII

LOST CAUSES

The blinding rain proved to be Suzanna's ally; so, perhaps, did her ignorance of the city. She took every turn she could, only avoiding cul-de-sacs, and the lack of any rationale in her escape route seemed to flummox her pursuers. Her path brought her out into Upper Parliament Street; at which point she put on some speed. The sirens faded behind her. But it would not be for long, she knew. The noose was tightening once more.

There were breaks in the rain-bellied clouds as she drove from the city, and shafts of sun found their way between, leaving a sheen of gold on roof and tarmac. But for moments only. Then the clouds sealed their wound, and the benediction ceased.

She drove and drove, as the afternoon grew late, and once more she was alone.

Cal stood at the kitchen door. Geraldine - who was peeling an onion - looked up and said:

‘Did you forget your umbrella?'

And he thought: she doesn't know who I am or what I am, and how could she?, because God in Heaven I don't know either. I forget myself. Oh Jesus, why do I forget myself?

‘Are you all right?' she was asking him, putting down the onion and the knife now and crossing the kitchen towards him. ‘Look at you. You're soaked.'

‘I'm in trouble,' he said flatly.

She stopped in her tracks. ‘What, Cal?'

‘I think the police may come here looking for me.'

‘Why?'

‘Don't ask. It's too complicated.'

Her face tightened a little.

‘There was a woman on the ‘phone this afternoon,' she said, ‘asking for your work number. Did she get through to you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And is she something to do with this?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me, Cal.'

‘I don't know where to begin.'

‘Are you having a fling with this woman?'

‘No,' he said. Then thought: At least not that I remember.

Tell me then.'

‘Later. Not now. Later.'

He left the kitchen to the smell of onions.

‘Where are you going?' she called after him.

‘I'm soaked to the skin.'

‘Cal.'

‘I have to get changed.'

‘How bad is this trouble you're in?'

He stopped half way up the stairs, pulling off his tie.

‘I can't remember,' he replied, but a voice at the back of his head - a voice he hadn't heard in a long while - said: Bad son, bad, and he knew it spoke the bitter truth.

She followed him as far as the bottom of the stairs. He went into the bedroom, and peeled off his wet clothes, while she continued to ply him with questions for which he had no replies, and with every unanswered question he could hear her voice get closer to tears. He knew he'd call himself a louse for this tomorrow (what was tomorrow?; another dream), but

he had to be away from the house again quickly, in case the police came looking for him. He had nothing to tell them of course - at least he could remember nothing. But they had ways, these people, of making a man speak.

He rummaged through the wardrobe, looking for a shirt, jeans and a coat, not giving a conscious thought to the choice. As he slipped on the thread-bare jacket he glanced out of the window. The street-lights had just come on; the rain was a silver torrent in their glare. A chilly night for a jaunt, but it couldn't be helped. He dug in his work suit for his wallet, which he transferred to his pocket, and that was it.

Geraldine was still at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She had successfully fought off tears.

‘And what am I supposed to tell them,' she demanded, ‘if they come looking for you?'

‘Say I came and went. Tell them the truth.'

‘Maybe I won't be here,' she said. Then, warming to the idea. ‘Yes. I don't think I'll be here.'

He had neither the time nor the words to offer any genuine solace.

‘Please trust me,' was all he could find to say. ‘I don't know what's happening any more than you do.'

‘Maybe you should see a doctor, Cal,' she said as he came downstairs. ‘Maybe ...' - her voice softened - ‘.... you're ill.'

He stopped his descent.

‘Brendan told me things -' she went on.

‘Don't bring Dad into this.'

‘No, listen to me,' she insisted. ‘He used to talk to me, Cal. Told me things in confidence. Things he thought he'd seen.'

‘I don't want to hear.'

‘He said he'd seen some woman killed in the back garden. And some monster on the railway track.' She smiled gently at the lunacy of this.

Cal stared down at her, suddenly sick to his stomach. Again, he thought: ,' know this.

‘Maybe you're having hallucinations too.'

‘He was telling stories to keep you amused,' said Cal. ‘He used to like to make stuff up. It was the Irish in him.'

‘Is that what you're doing, Cal?' she said, pleading for some reassurance. ‘Tell me it's a joke.'

‘I wish to God I could.'

‘Oh, Cal -'

He went to the bottom of the stairs and softly stroked her face.

‘If anyone comes asking -'

Til tell them the truth,' she said. ‘I don't know anything,'

Thank you,'

As he crossed to the front door she said:

‘Cal?'

‘Yes?'

‘You're not in love with this woman are you? Only I'd prefer you to tell me if you are,'

He opened the door. The rain slapped the doorstep.

‘I can't remember,' he said, and made a dash to the car.

After half an hour on the motorway the effects of a night without sleep, and all that the subsequent day had brought, began to catch up with Suzanna. The road in front of her blurred. She knew it was only a matter of time before she fell asleep at the wheel. She turned off the motorway at the first service stop, parked the car and went in search of a caffeine fix.

The cafeteria and amenities were thronged with customers, which she was thankful for. Amongst so many people, she was insignificant. Anxious about leaving the Weave a moment longer than she needed to, she purchased coffee from the vending machine rather than wait in a serpentine queue, then bought chocolate and biscuits from the shop and went back to the car.

Switching on the radio, she settled down to her stopgap meal. As she unwrapped the chocolate her thoughts went

again to Jerichau, the thief-magician, producing stolen goods from every pocket. Where was he now? She toasted him with her coffee, and told him to be safe.

At eight, the news came on. She waited for some mention of herself, but there was none. After the bulletin there was music; she let it play. Coffee drunk, chocolate and biscuits devoured, she slid down in the seat and her eyes closed to a jazz lullaby.

She was woken, mere seconds later, by a knocking on the window. There was a period of confusion while she worked out where she was, then she was wide awake, and staring with sinking heart at the uniform on the other side of the rain-streaked glass.

‘Please open the door,' the policeman said. He seemed to be alone. Should she just turn on the engine and drive away? Before she could reach any decision the door was wrenched open from the outside.

‘Get out,' the man said.

She complied. Even as she stepped from the car she heard the sound of soles on gravel on all sides of her.

Against the glare of the neon, a man stood silhouetted.

‘Yes,' was all he said, and suddenly there were men coming at her from all sides. She was about to dig for the menstruum, but the silhouette was approaching her, with something in its hand. Somebody tore the sleeve from her arm, she felt the needle slide into her exposed skin. The subtle body rose, but not quickly enough. Her will grew sluggish, her sight narrowed to a well-shaft. At the end of it, Hobart's mouth. She tumbled towards the man, her fingers gouging the slime on the walls, while the beast at the bottom roared its hosannas.

VIII

NEW EYES FOR OLD

The Mersey was high tonight, and fast; its waters a filthy brown, its spume grey. Cal leaned on the promenade railing and stared across the churning river to the deserted shipyards on the far bank. Once this waterway had been busy with ships, arriving weighed down with their cargo and riding high as they headed for faraway. Now, it was empty. The docks silted up, the wharfs and warehouses idle. Spook City; fit only for ghosts.

He felt like one himself. An insubstantial wanderer. And cold too, the way the dead must be cold. He put his hands in his jacket pocket to warm them, and his fingers found there half a dozen soft objects, which he took out and examined by the light of a nearby lamp.

They looked like withered plums, except that the skin was much tougher, like old shoe-leather. Clearly they were fruit, but no variety he could name. Where and how had he come by them? He sniffed at one. It smelt slightly fermented, like a heady wine. And appetizing; tempting even. Its scent reminded him that he'd not eaten since lunchtime.

He put the fruit to his lips, his teeth breaking through the corrugated skin with ease. The scent had not deceived; the meat inside did indeed have an alcoholic flavour, the juice burning his throat like cognac. He chewed, and had the fruit to his lips for a second bite before he'd swallowed the first, finishing it off, seeds and all, with a fierce appetite. Immediately, he began to devour another of them. He was suddenly ravenous. He lingered beneath the wind-buffeted lamp, the pool of light he stood in dancing, and fed his face as though he'd not eaten in a week.

He was biting into the penultimate fruit when it dawned on him that the rocking of the lamp above couldn't entirely account for the motion of the light around him. He looked down at the fruit in his hand, but he couldn't quite focus on it. God alive! Had he poisoned himself? The remaining fruit dropped from his hand and he was about to put his fingers down his throat to make himself vomit up the rest when the most extraordinary sensation overtook him.

He rose up; or at least some part of him did.

His feet were still on the concrete, he could feel it solid beneath his soles, but he was still floating up, the lamp shining beneath him now, the promenade stretching out to right and left of him, the river surging against the banks, wild and dark.

The rational fool in him said: you ‘re intoxicated; the fruits have made you drunk.

But he felt neither sick nor out of control; his sight (sights) were clear. He could still see from the eyes in his head, but also from a vantage point high above him. Nor was that all he could see. Part of him was with the litter too, gusting along the promenade; another part was out in the Mersey, gazing back towards the bank.

This proliferation of viewpoints didn't confuse him: the sights mingled and married in his head, a pattern of risings and fallings; of looking out and back and far and near.

He was not one but many.

He Cal; he his father's son; he his mother's son; he a child buried in a man, and a man dreaming of being a bird.

A bird!

And all at once it all came back to him; all the wonders he'd forgotten surged back with exquisite particularity. A thousand moments and glimpses and words.

A bird, a chase, a house, a yard, a carpet, a flight (and he the bird; yes! yes!); then enemies and friends; Shadwell, Immacolata; the monsters; and Suzanna, his beautiful

Suzanna, her place suddenly clear in the story his mind was telling itself.

He remembered it all. The carpet unweaving, the house coming apart; then into the Fugue, and the glories that the night there had brought.

It took all his new-found senses to hold the memories, but he was not overwhelmed. It seemed he dreamed them all at once; held them in a moment that was sweet beyond words: a reunion of self and secret self which was an heroic remembering.

And after the recognition, tears, as for the first time he touched the buried grief he felt at losing the man who'd taught him the poem he'd recited in Lo's orchard: his father, who'd lived and died and never once known what Cal knew now.

Momentarily, sorrow and salt drew him back into himself, and he was single-sighted once more, standing under the uncertain light, bereft -

Then his soul soared again, higher now, and higher, and this time it reached escape velocity.

Suddenly he was up, up above England.

Below him moonlight fell on bright continents of cloud, whose vast shadows moved over hill-side and suburb like silent ushers of sleep. He went too, carried on the same winds. Over tracts of land which pylons strode in humming lines; and city streets the hour had emptied of all but felons and wild dogs.

And this flight, gazing down like a lazy hawk, stars at his back, the isle beneath him, this flight was companion to that other he'd taken, over the carpet, over the Fugue.

No sooner had his mind turned to the Weaveworld than he seemed to sniff it - seemed to know where it lay beneath him. His eye was not sharp enough to pick out its place, but he knew he could find it, if he could only keep this new sense intact when he finally returned to the body beneath him.

The carpet was North-North-East of the city, that he was certain of; many miles away and still moving. Was it in Suzanna's hands?; was she fleeing to some remote place where she prayed their enemies wouldn't come? No, the news was

worse than that, he sensed. The Weaveworld and the woman who carried it were in terrible jeopardy, somewhere below him- At that thought his body grew possessive of him once more. He felt it around him - its heat, its weight - and he exalted in its solidity. Flying thoughts were all very well, but what were they worth without muscle and bone to act upon them?

A moment later he was standing beneath the light once more, and the river was still churning and the clouds he'd just seen from above moved in mute flotillas before a wind that smelt of the sea. The salt he tasted was not sea-salt; it was the tears he'd shed for the death of his father, and for his forgetting, and for his mother too perhaps - for it seemed all loss was one loss, all forgetting one forgetting.

But he'd brought new wisdom from the high places. He knew now that things forgotten might be recalled; things lost, found again.

That was all that mattered in the world: to search and find.

He looked North-North-East. Though the many sights he'd had were once more narrowed to one, he knew he could still find the carpet.

He saw it with his heart. And seeing it, started in pursuit.

A SECRET PLACE

Suzanna stirred from her drugged sleep only slowly. At first the effort to keep her lids open for more than a few seconds was too much for her, and her consciousness struggled in darkness. But by degrees her body was cleansing itself of whatever Hobart had put into her veins. She just had to let it do that job in its own good time.

She was in the back of Hobart's car; that much was clear. Her enemy was in the front seat beside the driver. At one point he looked round, and saw that she was waking, but said nothing. He just stared at her for a little time, then returned his attentions to the road. There was something uncomfortably lazy about the look in his eyes, as if he was certain now of what the future would bring and had no need to hurry towards it.

In her drowsy state it was difficult to calculate time, but surely hours passed as they drove. Once she opened her eyes to find them passing through a sleeping city - she did not know which - then the remnants of the drug won her over again and when next she woke they were travelling a winding country road, lightless hills rising to either side. Only now did she realize that Hobart's car was leading a convoy; there were headlamps shining through the back window from the vehicles behind. She summoned up strength enough to turn round. There was a Black Maria following, and several vehicles behind that. Again, drowsiness overtook her for a timeless while. It was cold air that woke her again. The driver had opened the window, and the air had brought goose-pimples to her arms. She sat up and breathed deeply, letting the chill slap her to wakefulness. The region they were driving through was mountainous. The Scottish Highlands, she presumed; where else would there still be snowy peaks in the middle of spring? They took a route now that led them off the road onto a rocky track, which slowed their pace considerably. The track rose, winding. The engine of the van behind laboured; but the road got rougher and steeper still before it delivered them to the top of the hill.

There,' said Hobart to the driver. ‘We found it. There!'

Suzanna peered from the window. There was neither moon nor stars to illuminate the scene, but she could see the black bulk of the mountains all around, and far below, lights burning.

The convoy followed the hill top for half a mile, then began a steady descent into the valley.

The lights she'd seen were car headlamps, the vehicles parked in a large circle, so that the lights created an arena. The arrival of Hobart's convoy was clearly expected; as they came within fifty yards of the circle she saw figures coming to greet them.

The car came to a halt.

‘Where are we?' she slurred.

‘Journey's end,' was all Hobart would say. Then, to the driver: ‘Bring her.'

The legs beneath her were rubber-jointed; she had to hold onto the car for a while before she could persuade them to behave. With the driver keeping firm hold of her, she was then taken towards the arena. Only now did she realize the scale of the gathering. There were dozens of cars in the ring, and many more in the darkness beyond. The drivers and passengers, who amounted to hundreds, were not Human but Seerkind. Amongst them were anatomies and colorations that must have made them outcasts in the Kingdom.

She scanned the faces, looking for any that she knew, and one in particular. But Jerichau was not amongst them.

Hobart now stepped into the ring of light, and as he did so from the shadows on the opposite side of the arena stepped a figure Suzanna assumed was that of the Prophet. His appearance was greeted with a soft swell of murmuring from the Seerkind. Some pushed their way forward to get a better look at their Saviour; others fell to their knees.

He was impressive, Suzanna conceded to herself.

His deep-set eyes were fixed on Hobart, and a small smile of approval found his lips as the Inspector bowed his head before his master. So, that was the way of it. Hobart was in the Prophet's employ, which fact scarcely covered the latter with glory. Words were exchanged between them, the breath of the speakers visible on the cold air. Then the Prophet put his gloved hand on Hobart's shoulder and turned to announce to the assembly the return of the Weaveworld. Suddenly the air was full of shouts.

Hobart turned towards the Black Maria and beckoned. From its recesses came two of the Inspector's cohorts, carrying the carpet. They entered the ring of light, and, at Hobart's instruction, laid the carpet at the Prophet's feet. The crowd was hushed utterly in the presence of their sleeping homeland; and the Prophet, when he spoke, did not need to raise his voice.

‘Here,' he said, almost casually. ‘Did I not promise?'

... and so saying he put his heel to the carpet. It unrolled in front of him. The silence held; all eyes were on the design; two hundred minds and more sharing the same thought...

Open Sesame...

... the call of all eager visitors, set before closed doors, and desiring access.

Open; show yourself ...

Whether it was that collective act of will that began the unweaving, or whether the Prophet had previously plotted the mechanism, Suzanna could not know. Sufficient that it began. Not at the centre of the carpet, as at Shearman's house, but from the borders.

The last unweaving had been more accident than design, a wild eruption of threads and pigment, the Fugue breaking into sudden and chaotic life. This time there was clearly system at work in the process, the knots decoding their motifs in a pre-arranged sequence. The dance of threads was no less complex than before, but there was a consummate grace about the spectacle, the strands describing the most elegant manoeuvres as they filled the air, trailing life as they went. Forms were clothing themselves in flesh and feather, rock was flowing, trees taking flight towards their rooting place.

Suzanna had seen this glory before, of course, and was to some extent prepared for it. But to the Seerkind, and even more to Hobart and his bully-boys, the sight awoke fear and awe in equal measure.

Her guard utterly forgot his duty, and stood like a child before his first firework display, unsure of whether to run or stay. She took her chance while it was offered, and slipped from his custody, away from the light that would reveal her, glancing back long enough to see the Prophet, his hair rising like white fire from his scalp, standing in the midst of the unweaving while the Fugue burst into life all around him.

It was difficult to draw her gaze away, but she ran as best her legs would allow towards the darkness of the slopes. She moved twenty, thirty, forty yards from the circle. Nobody came after her.

A particularly bright blossoming at her back momentarily lit the terrain before her like a falling star. It was rough, uncultivated ground, interrupted only by the occasional outcrop of rock; a valley chosen for its remoteness, most likely, where the Fugue could be stirred from sleep uninterrupted by Humankind. How long this miracle would remain hidden, with summer on its way, was a moot point, but perhaps they had plans for a rapture to divert the inquisitive.

Again, the land ahead of her was lit, and momentarily she glimpsed a figure up ahead. It was there and gone so quickly she could not trust her eyes.

Another yard however, and she felt a chill on her cheek that was no natural wind. She guessed its source the instant it touched her, but she had no time to retreat or prepare herself before the darkness unfolded and its mistress stepped into her path.

FATALITIES

The face was mutilated beyond recognition, but the voice, colder than the chill the body gave off, was indisputably that of Immacolata. Nor was she alone: her sisters were with her, darker than the dark.

‘Why are you running?' said the Incanta-trix. ‘There's nowhere to escape to.' Suzanna halted. There was no ready way past the three. Turn around,' said Immacolata, another splendour from the Weave uncharitably lighting the wound of her face. ‘See where Shadwell stands? That'll be the Fugue in moments.' ‘Shadwell?' said Suzanna.

‘Their beloved Prophet,' came the reply. ‘Beneath that show of holiness I lent him, there beats a Salesman's heart.'

So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopaedias should end up peddling hope.

‘It was his idea, said the Incantatrix, ‘to give them a Messiah. Now they've got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They're going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process.'

They won't fall for this.'

They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to start than rumours, amongst your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They've been conspired against and cheated - and they're ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn't that perfect?

The Fugue'll die at the very hands of those who've come to save it.'

‘And that's what Shadwell wants?'

‘He's a man: he wants adoration.' She gazed over Suzanna's shoulder towards the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. ‘And that's what he's got. So he's happy.'

‘He's pitiful,' said Suzanna. ‘You know that as well as I do. Yet you give him power. Your power. Our power.'

‘For my own ends, sister.'

‘You gave him the jacket.'

‘It was of my making, yes. Though there've been times I've regretted the gift.'

The ragged muscle of Immacolata's face was incapable of its former deceptions. As she spoke she couldn't mask the sorrow in her.

‘You should have taken it back,' said Suzanna.

‘A gift of rapture can't be lent,' said Immacolata, ‘only given, and given in perpetuity. Did your grandmother teach you nothing? It's time you learned, sister. I'll give you those lessons.'

‘And what do you get in return?'

‘A distraction from Rome's gift to me.' She touched her face. ‘And from the stench of men.' She paused, her maimed face darkening. They'll destroy you for your strength. Men like Hobart.'

‘I wanted to kill him once,' Suzanna said, remembering the hatred she'd felt.

‘He knows that. That's why he dreams of you. Death the maiden.' A laugh broke from her. ‘They're all mad, sister.'

‘Not all,' said Suzanna.

‘What must I do to persuade you?' the Incantatrix said. ‘Make you understand how you'll be betrayed. Have already been betrayed.'

Without seeming to take a step, she moved away from Suzanna. Flickering strands of light were moving past them now, as the Fugue spread from its hiding place. But Suzanna scarcely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the sight revealed when Immacolata stood aside.

The Magdalene was there, sumptuously clothed in folds of

lacy ectoplasm: a wraith bride. And from beneath the creature's skirts a pitiful figure was emerging, and turning its face up towards Suzanna.

‘Jerichau

The man's eyes were clouded; though they settled on Suzanna there was no recognition in them.

‘See?' said Immacolata. ‘Betrayed.'

‘What have you done to him?' Suzanna demanded.

There was nothing left of the Jerichau she'd known. He looked like something already dead. His clothes were in tatters, his skin mottled and seeping from dozens of vicious wounds.

‘He doesn't know you,' said the Incantatrix. ‘He has a new wife now.'

The Magdalene stretched her hand out and touched Jerichau's head, stroking it as if he were a lap-dog.

‘He went to my sister's arms willingly -' Immacolata said.

‘Leave him be,' Suzanna yelled at the Magdalene. Enfeebled by the drugs, her self-control was perilously thin.

‘But this is love,' Immacolata goaded. There'll be children in time. Many children. His lust knows no bounds.'

The thought of Jerichau coupling with the Magdalene made Suzanna shudder. Again, she called his name. This time his mouth opened, and it seemed his tongue was seeking to form a word. But no. All his palate could produce was a dribble of saliva.

‘You see how quickly they turn to fresh pleasures?' said Immacolata. ‘As soon as your back is turned he's ploughing another furrow.'

Rage leapt up in Suzanna, bettering her disgust. Nor did it come alone. Though the remnants of the drug still made any focus difficult, she felt the menstruum ambitious in her belly.

Immacolata knew it.

‘Don't be perverse ...' she said, her voice seeming to whisper at Suzanna's ear though they stood yards apart. ‘We are more alike than not.'

As she spoke Jerichau raised his hands from the ground towards Suzanna, and now she realized why there was no

recognition in his eyes. He could not see her. The Magdalene had blinded her consort, to keep him close. But he knew she was there: he heard her, he reached for her.

‘Sister ...' Immacolata said to the Magdalene, ‘.... bring your husband to heel.'

The Magdalene was quick to obey. The hand she had on Jerichau's head grew longer, the ringers pouring down over his face, entering his mouth and nostrils. Jerichau attempted to resist, but the Magdalene pulled on him, and he tumbled backwards amongst her pestilential petticoats.

Without warning, Suzanna felt the menstruum spill from her and fly towards Jerichau's tormentor. It happened in the time it took to see it. She caught a glimpse of the Magdalene's features, stretched into a shriek, then the stream of silver light struck her. The wraith's cry broke into pieces, fragments of sound spiralling off - a sobbing complaint, a howl of anger -as the assault lifted her into the air.

As usual, Suzanna's thoughts were a beat behind the menstruum. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing the light was tearing at the wraith, gaping holes opening in its matter. The Magdalene retaliated, the stream of the menstruum carrying the attack back into Suzanna's face. She felt blood splash down her neck, but the barbs only spurred her fury; she was tearing her enemy as though the wraith were a sheet of tissue paper.

Immacolata had not been a passive spectator in this, but had flung her own attack against Suzanna. The ground at Suzanna's feet shuddered, then rose around her as if to bury her alive, but the subtle body pitched the earth wall back, then went at the Magdalene with redoubled fury. Though the menstruum seemed to have a life of its own, that was an illusion. She owned this power, she knew; now more than ever. It was her anger that fuelled it, that deafened it to mercy or apology; it was she who would not be satisfied until the Magdalene was undone.

And all at once, it was over. The Magdalene's cries stopped dead.

Enough, Suzanna instructed. The menstruum let the few

fragments of rotted ectoplasm drop to the spattered ground, and withdrew its light into its mistress. From attack to counter-attack to coup de grace had taken maybe a dozen seconds.

Suzanna looked towards Immacolata, whose wretched features were all disbelief. She was trembling from head to foot, as if she might fall to the ground in a fit. Suzanna took her chance. She'd no way of knowing if she could survive a sustained attack from the Incantatrix, and now was certainly no time to put the problem to the test. As the third sister threw herself amongst the Magdalene's litter, and began to wail, Suzanna took to her heels.

The tide of the Fugue was lapping all around them now, and the brilliant air camouflaged her flight. Only after she'd covered ten yards or more did she come to her senses and remember Jerichau. There had been no sign of him in the vicinity of the dead Magdalene. Praying that he had found his way off the battlefield, she ran on, the Hag's harrowing din loud in her ears.

She ran and ran, believing over and over that she felt the chill of the Virgin on her neck. But it seemed she imagined the pursuit, for she ran unhindered for a mile or more, up the slope of the valley and over the crest of a hill, until the light of the Weave's forthcoming was dim behind her.

It would only be a short time before the Fugue reached her, and when it did she would need to have some strategy. But first she had to catch her breath.

The gloom nursed her awhile. She stood trying not to think too hard of what she'd just done. But a certain ungovernable elation filled her. She had killed the Magdalene; destroyed one of the Three: it was no minor feat. Had the power in her always been so dangerous?; ripening behind her ignorance, growing wise, growing lethal?

For some reason she remembered Mimi's book, which pre-

sumably Hobart still had in his possession. Now more than ever she hoped it could teach her something of what she was, and how to profit by it. She would have to get the volume back, even if it meant confronting Hobart once more.

As she formulated this thought she heard her name uttered, or an approximation of it. She looked in the direction of the voice, and there, standing a few yards from her, was Jeri-chau.

He had indeed escaped the Magdalene's grasp, though his face was scored by the sister's ethereal fingers. His wracked frame was on the verge of collapse, and even as he called Suzanna's name a second time, and threw his withered arms out towards her, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell face down on the ground.

She was kneeling by his side in moments, and turning him over. He was feather-light. The sisters had drained him of all but the spark of purpose that had sent him stumbling after her. Blood they could take; and seed and muscle. Love he'd kept.

She drew him up towards her. His head lolled against her breasts. His breathing was fast and shallow, his cold body full of tremors. She stroked his head; the diminishing light around it playing about her fingers.

He was not content simply to be cradled, however, but pushed himself away from her body a few inches in order to reach up and touch her face. The veins in his throat throbbed as he tried to speak. She hushed him, saying there would be time to talk later. But he made a tiny shake of his head, and she could feel as she held him how close the end was. She did him no kindness to pretend otherwise. It was time to die, and he had sought out her arms as a place to perform that duty.

‘Oh my sweet...' she said, her chest aching. ‘... sweet man...'

Again he strove for words, but his tongue cheated him. Only soft sounds came, which she could make no sense of.

She leaned closer to him. He no longer resisted her comforting, but took hold of her shoulder and drew himself closer still

to speak to her. This time she made a sense of the words, though they were scarcely more than sighs.

‘I'm not afraid,' he said, expelling the last word on a breath that had no brother, but came against her cheek like a kiss.

Then his hand lost its strength, and slipped from her shoulder, his eyes closed, and he was gone from her.

A bitter thought came visiting: that his last words were as much a plea as a statement. Jerichau had been the only one she'd ever told about how at the warehouse the menstruum had stirred Cal from unconsciousness. Was that I'm not afraid his way of saying: leave me to death?; I wouldn't thank you for resurrection?

Whatever he'd meant she'd never find out now.

She laid him gently on the earth. Once, he'd spoken words of love that had defied their condition, and become light. Were there others he knew, that defied Death, or was he already on his way to that region Mimi had left for, all contact with the world Suzanna still occupied broken?

It seemed so. Though she watched the body ‘til her eyes ached, it made no murmur. He had left it to the earth, and her with it.

CAL, TRAVELLING NORTH

Cal's journey North dragged on through the night, but he didn't weary. Perhaps it was the fruit that kept his senses so preternaturally clear; either that or a new-found sense of purpose that pressed him forward. He kept his analytic faculties on hold, making decisions as to his route instinctively.

Was it the same sense the pigeons had possessed that he now navigated by? A dream-sense, beyond the reach of intellect or reason: a homing? That was how it felt. That he'd become a bird, orienting himself not by the stars (they were blotted by clouds), nor by the magnetic pole, but by the simple urge to go home; back to the orchard, where he'd stood in a ring of loving faces and spoken Mad Mooney's verse.

As he drove he ransacked his head for other such fragments, so that he'd have something fresh to perform next time. Little rhymes came back from childhood, odd lines that he'd learned more for their music than their meaning.

‘Naked Heaven comes and goes, Spits out seas and dyes the rose, Puts on coats of wind and rain And simply takes them off again.'

He was no more certain of what some were about now than he'd been as a child, but they came to his lips as if fresh-minted, secure in their rhythms and rhymes.

XII

RESOLUTION

Suzanna sat beside Jerichau's body for a long while, thinking, while trying all the time not to think. Down the hill the unweaving was still going on; the tide of the Fugue approaching her. But she couldn't face the beauty of it, not at the moment. When the threads started to come within fifty yards of her she retreated, leaving Jerichau's body where it lay.

Dawn was paling the clouds overhead. She decided to climb to higher ground so as to have an overview when day came. The higher she went the windier it became; a bitter wind, from the North. But it was worth the shivering, for the promontory she stood upon offered her a fine panorama, and as the day strengthened she realized just how cannily Shadwell had selected this valley. It was bounded on all sides by steep hills, whose slopes were bereft of any building, however humble. Indeed the only sign of human presence was the primitive track the convoy had followed to get here, which had most likely been used more in the last twenty-four hours than it had in its entire span hitherto.

It was on that road, as dawn brought colour to the hills, that she saw the car. It crept along the ridge of the hill a little way, then came to a halt. Its driver, minuscule from Suzanna's vantage point, got out and surveyed the valley. It seemed the Fugue below was not visible to such a casual witness, for the driver got back into the car almost immediately as if realizing that he'd taken a wrong turning. He didn't drive away how-

Some had a bitter sting:

‘The pestilence of families

Is not congenital disease

But feet that follow where the foot

That has proceeeded them was put.'

Others were fragments from poems which he'd either forgotten or never been taught in their entirety. One in particular kept coming back to him.

‘How I love the pie-bald horses! Best of all, the pie-bald horses!'

That was the closing lines of something, he presumed, but of what he couldn't remember.

There were plenty of other fragments. He recited the lines over and over as he drove, polishing his delivery, finding a new emphasis here, a fresh rhythm there.

There was no prompting from the back of his head; the poet was quite silent. Or was it that he and Mad Mooney were finally speaking with a single voice?

He crossed the border into Scotland about two-thirty in the morning and continued to drive North, the landscape becoming hillier and less populated as he drove. He was getting hungry, and his muscles were beginning to ache after so many hours of uninterrupted driving, but nothing short of Armageddon would have coaxed him to slow down or stop. With every mile he came nearer to Wonderland, in which a life too long delayed was waiting to be lived.