Weave World

Part One. Wild Blue Yonder

‘I, for one, know of no sweeter sight for a man's eyes than his own country... ‘ Homer, The Odyssey

HOMING

Nothing ever begins.

There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that: though as the narrator's voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.

Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys.

Nothing is fixed. In and out the, shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter, woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden amongst them is a filigree which will with time become a world.

It must be arbitrary then, the place at which we chose to embark.

Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed.

This place, for instance.

This garden, untended since the death of its protector three months ago, and now running riot beneath a blindingly bright late August sky; its fruits hanging unharvested, its herbaceous borders coaxed to mutiny by a summer of torrential rain and sudden, sweltering days.

This house, identical to the hundreds of others in this street alone, built with its back so close to the railway track that the passage of the slow train from Liverpool to Crewe rocks the china dogs on the dining-room sill.

And with this young man, who now steps out of the back door and makes his way down the beleaguered path to a ramshackle hut from which there rises a welcoming chorus of coos and flutterings.

His name is Calhoun Mooney, but he's universally known as Cal. He is twenty-six, and has worked for five years at an insurance firm in the city centre. It's a job he takes no pleasure in, but escape from the city he's lived in all his life seems more unlikely than ever since the death of his mother, all of which may account for the weary expression on his well-made fare.

He approaches the door of the pigeon loft, opens it, and at that moment - for want of a better - this story takes wing.

Cal had told his father several times that the wood at the bottom of the soft door was deteriorating. It could only be a matter of time before the planks rotted completely, giving the rats who lived and grew gross along the railway line access to the pigeons. But Brendan Mooney had shown little or no interest in his racing birds since Eileen's death. This despite; or perhaps because, the birds had been his abiding passion during her life. How often had Cal heard his mother complain that Brendan spent more time with his precious pigeons that he did inside the house? She would not have had that complaint to make now; now Cal's father sat most of every day at the bade window, staring out into the garden and watching the wilderness steadily take charge of his wife's handiwork, as if he might find in the spectacle of dissolution some clue as to how his grief might be similarly erased. There was little sign that he was learning much from his vigil however. Every day, when Cal came back to the house in Chariot Street - a house he'd thought to have left for good half a decade ago, but which his father's isolation had obliged him to return to - it seemed he found Brendan slightly smaller. Not hunched, but somehow shrunken, as though he'd decided to present the smallest possible target to a world suddenly grown hostile.

Murmuring a welcome to the forty or so birds in the loft, Cal stepped inside, to be met with a scene of high agitation. All but a few of the pigeons were flying back and forth in their cages, near to hysteria. Had the rats been in, Cal wondered? He cast around for any damage, but there was no visible sign of what had fuelled this furore.

He'd never seen them so excited. For fully half a minute he stood in bewilderment, watching their display, the din of their wings making, his head reel, before deciding to step into the largest of the cages and claim the prize birds from the melee before they did themselves damage.

He unlatched the cage, and had opened it no more than two or three inches when one of last year's champions, a normally sedate cock known, as were they all, by his number - 33 - flew at the gap. Shocked by the speed of the bird's approach, Cal let the door go, and in the seconds between his fingers slipping from the latch and his retrieval of it, 33 was out.

‘Damn you!' Cal shouted, cursing himself as much as the bird, for he'd left the door of the loft itself ajar, and apparently careless of what harm he might do himself in his bid - 33 was making for the sky.

In the few moments it took Cal to latch the cage again, the bird was through the door and away. Cal went in stumbling pursuit, but by the time he got back into the open air 33 was already fluttering up above the garden. At roof height he flew around in three ever larger circles, as if orienting himself. Then he seemed to fix his objective and took off in a North-Easterly direction.

A rapping drew Cal's attention, and he looked down to see his father standing at the window, mouthing something to him. There was more animation on Brendan's harried fact than Cal had seen in months; the escape of the bird seemed to have temporarily roused him from his despondency. Moments later he was at the back door, asking what had happened. Cal had no time for explanation.

‘It's off' he yelled.

Then, keeping his eye on the sky as he went, he started down the path at the side of the house.

When he reached the front the bird was still in sight. Cal leapt the fence and crossed Chariot Street at a run, determined to give chase. It was, he knew, an all but hopeless pursuit. With a tail wind a prime bird could reach a top speed of 70 miles an hour, and though 33 had not raced for the best part of a year he could still easily outpace a human runner. But he also knew he couldn't go back to his father without making some effort to track the escapee, however futile.

At the bottom of the street he lost sight of his quarry behind the rooftops, and so made a detour to the foot bridge that crossed the Woolton Road, mounting the steps three and four at a time. From the top he was rewarded with a good view of the city. North towards Woolton Hill, and off East, and South-East, over Allerton towards Hunt's Cross. Row upon row of council house roofs presented themselves; shimmering in the fierce heat of the afternoon, the herringbone rhythm of the dose-packed streets rapidly giving way to the industrial wastelands of Speke.

Cal could see the pigeon too, though he was a rapidly diminishing dot.

It mattered little, for from this elevation 33's destination was perfectly apparent. Less than two miles from the bridge the air was full of wheeling birds, drawn to the spot no doubt by some concentration of food in the area. Every year brought at least one such day, when the ant or gnat population suddenly boomed, and the bird life of the city was united in its gluttony. Gulls up from the mud banks of the Mersey, flying tip to tip with thrush and jackdaw and starling, all content to join the jamboree while the summer still warmed their backs.

This, no doubt, was the call 33 had heard. Bored with his balanced diet of maize and maple peas, tired of the pecking order of the loft and the predictability of each day - the bird had wanted out: wanted up and away. A day of high life; of food that had to be chased a little, and tasted all the better for that; of the companionship of wild things. All this went through Cal's head, in a vague sort of way, while he watched the circling flocks.

It would be perfectly impossible, he knew, to locate an individual bird amongst these riotous thousands. He would have to trust that 33 would be content with his feast on the wing, and when he was, sated do as he was trained a do, and come home. Nevertheless, the sheer spectacle of, so many birds exercised a peculiar fascination, and crossing the bridge, Cal began to make his way towards the epicentre of this feathered cyclone.

II

THE PURSUERS

The woman at the window of the Hanover Hotel drew bade the grey curtain and looked own at the street below.

‘Is it possible... ?' she murmured to the shadows that held court in the comer of the room. There was no answer to her question forthcoming, nor did there need to be. Unlikely as it seemed the trail had incontestably led here, to, this dog-tired city, lying bruised and neglected beside a river that had once borne stave ships and, cotton ships and could now barely carry its own weight out to sea. To Liverpool.

‘Such a place,' she said. A minor dust-dervish had whipped itself up in the street outside, lifting antediluvian litter into the air.

‘Why are you so surprised?' said the man who half lay and half sat on the bed, pillows supporting his impressive frame, hands linked behind his heavy head. The face was wide, the features upon it almost too expressive, like those of an actor who'd made a career of crowd-pleasers, and grown expert in cheap effects. His mouth, which knew a thousand variations of the simile, found one that suited his leisurely mood, and said: They've led us quite a dance. But we're almost there. Don't you feel it? I do.'

The woman glanced back at this man. He had taken off the jacket that had been her last loving gift to him, and thrown, it over the back of the chair. The shirt beneath was sweat sodden at the armpits, and the flesh of his face looked waxen in the afternoon light. Despite all she felt for him - and that was enough to make her tearful of computation - he was only human, and today, after so much heat and travel, he wore every one of his fifty-two years plainly. In the time they had been together, pursuing the Fugue, she had lent him what strength she could, as he in his turn had lent her his wit, and his expertise in surviving this realm. The Kingdom of the Cuckoo, the Families had always called it, this wretched human world which she had endured for vengeance's sake.

But very soon now the chase would be over. Shadwell the man on the bed - would profit by what they were so very dose to finding, and she, seeing their quarry besmirched and sold into slavery, would be revenged. Then she would leave the Kingdom to its grimy ways, and happily.

She turned her attentions back to the street. Shadwell was right. They had been led a dance. But the music would cease soon enough.

From where Shadwell lay Immacolata's silhouette was clear against the window. Not for the first time his thoughts turned to the problem of how he would sell this woman. It was a purely academic exercise, of course, but one that pressed his skills to their limits.

He was by profession a salesman; that had been his business since his early adolescence. More than his business, his genius. He prided himself that there was nothing alive or dead he could not find a buyer for. In his time he had been a raw sugar merchant, a small arms salesman, a seller of dolls, dogs, life-insurance, salvation rags and lighting fixtures. He had trafficked in Lourdes water and hashish, in Chinese screens and patented cures for constipation. Amongst this parade of items there had of course been frauds and fakes aplenty, but nothing, nothing that he had not been able to foist upon the public sooner or later, either by seduction or intimidation.

But she - Immacolata, the not quite woman he had shared his every waking moment with these past many years she, he knew, would defy his talents as a salesman.

For one, she was paradoxical, and the buying public had little taste for that. They wanted their merchandise shorn of ambiguity: made simple and safe. She was not safe; oh, certainly nor not with her terrible rage and her still more terrible alleluias; nor was she simple. Beneath the incandescent beauty of her fare, behind eyes that concealed centuries yet could be so immediate they drew blood, beneath the deep olive skin, the Jewess' skin, there lay feelings that would blister the air if given vent.

She was too much herself to be sold, he decided - not for the first time - and told himself to forget the exercise. It was one he could never hope to master; why should he torment himself with it? Immacolata turned away from the window.

‘Arc you rested now?' she asked him.

‘It was you wanted to get out of the sun; he reminded. her. ‘I'm ready to start whenever you are. Though I haven't a clue where we begin...'

‘That's not so difficult; Immacolata said. ‘Remember what my sister prophesied? Events are close to crisis-point.'

As she spoke, the shadows in the comer of the room stirred afresh, and Immacolata's two dead sisters showed their ethereal skirts. Shadwell had never been easy in their presence, and they in their turn had always despised him. But the old one, the Hag, the Beldam, had skills as an oracle, no doubt of that. What she saw in the filth of her sister, the Magdalene's after-birth, was usually proved correct.

‘The Fugue can't stay hidden much longer; said Immacolata. ‘As soon as it's moved it creates vibrations. It can't help itself. So much life, pressed into such a hideway.'

‘And do you feel any of these... vibrations?' said Shadwell, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up.

Immacolata shook her head. ‘No. Not yet. But we should be ready.'

Shadwell picked up his jacket, and slipped it on. The fining shimmered, casting filaments of seduction across the room. By their momentary brightness he caught sight of the Magdalene and the Hag. The old woman covered her eyes against the spillage from the jacket, fearful of its power. The Magdalena did not concern herself; her lids had long ago been sewn closed over sockets blind from birth.

‘When the movements begin it may take an hour or two to pin-point the location; said Immacolata.

‘An hour?' Shadwell replied. The pursuit that had finally led them here seemed today to have been a lifetime long ‘I can wait an hour.'

WHO MOVED THE GROUND?

The birds did not stop their spiralling over the city as Cal approached. For every one that flew off, another three or four joined the throng.

The phenomenon had not gone unnoticed. People stood on the pavement and on doorsteps, hands shading their eyes from the glare of the sky, and stared heavenwards. Opinions were everywhere ventured as to the reason for this congregation. Cal didn't stop to offer his, but threaded his way through the maze of streets, on occasion having to double back and find a new route, but by degrees getting closer to the hub.

And now, as he approached, it became apparent that his first theory had been incorrect. The birds were not feeding. There was no swooping nor squabbling over a six-legged crumb, nor any sign in the lower air of the insect life that might have attracted these numbers. The birds were simply circling. Some of the smaller species, sparrows and finches, had tired of flying and now lined rooftops and fences, leaving their larger brethren - carrion-crows, magpies, gulls to occupy the heights. There was no scarcity of pigeons here either; the wild variety banking and wheeling in flocks of fifty or more, their shadows rippling across the rooftops. There were some domesticated birds too, doubtless escapees like 33. Canaries and budgerigars: birds called from their millet and their bells by whatever force had summoned the others. For these birds being here was effectively suicide. Though their fellows were at present too excited by this ritual to take note of the pets in their midst, they would not be so indifferent when the circling spell no longer bound them. They would be cruel and quick. They'd fall on the canaries and the budgerigars and peck out their eyes, killing them for the crime of being tamed.

But for now, the parliament was at peace. It mounted the air, higher, ever higher, busying the sky.

The pursuit of this spectacle had led Cal to a part of the city he'd seldom explored. Here the plain square houses of the council estates gave way to a forlorn and eerie no-man's-land, where streets of once-fine, three-storey terraced houses still stood, inexplicably preserved from the bulldozer, surrounded by areas levelled in expectation of a boomtime that had never come; islands in a dust sea.

It was one, of these streets - Rue Street the sign read - that seemed the point over which the flocks were focused. There were more sizeable assemblies of exhausted birds here than in any of the adjacent streets; they twittered and preened themselves on the eaves and chimney tops and television aerials.

Cal scanned sky and roof alike, making his way along Rue Street as he did so. And there - a thousand to one dance he caught sight of his bird. A solitary pigeon, dividing a cloud of sparrows. Years of watching the sky, waiting for pigeons to return from races, had given him an eagle eye; he could recognize a particular bird by a dozen idiosyncrasies in its flight pattern. He had found 33; no doubt of it. But event as he watched, the bird disappeared behind the roofs of Rue Street.

He gave chase afresh, finding a narrow alley whirl cut between the terraced houses half way along the road, and let on to the larger alley that ran behind the row. It had not been well kept. Piles of household refuse had been dumped along its length; orphan dustbins overturned, their contents scattered.

But twenty yards from where he stood there was work going on. Two removal men were manoeuvring an armchair out of the yard behind one of the houses, while a third stared up at the birds. Several hundred were assembled on the yard walls and window sills and railings. Cal wandered along the alley, scrutinizing this assembly for pigeons. He found a dozen or more amongst the multitude, but not the one he sought.

‘What d'you make of it?'

He had come within ten yards of the removal men, and one of them, the idler was addressing the question to him.

‘I don't know,' he answered honestly.

‘Maybe they're goin' to migrate.' Said the younger of the two armchair carriers, letting drop his half of the burden and staring up at the sky.

‘Don't be an idiot, Shane,' said the other man, a West Indian. His name - Gideon was emblazoned on the back of his overalls.

‘Why'd they migrate in the middle of the fuckin' summer?'

‘Too hot,' was the idler's reply. ‘That's what it is. Too fuckin' hot. It's cookin' their brains up there.'

Gideon had now put down his half of the armchair and was leaning against the back yard wall, applying a flame to the half-spent cigarette he'd fished from his top pocket.

‘Wouldn't be bad, would it?' he mused. ‘Being a bird. Gettin' yer end away all spring, then fuckin' off to the South of France as soon as yer get a chill on yer bollocks.'

‘They don't live long,' said Cal.

‘Do they not?' said Gideon, drawing on his cigarette. He shrugged. ‘Short and sweet,' he said. That'd suit me.'

Shane plucked at the half-dozen blond hairs of his would-be moustache. ‘Yer know somethin' about birds, do yer?' he said to Cal.

‘Only pigeons.'

‘Race ‘em, do you?'

‘Once in a while-'

‘Me brother-in-law keeps whippets; said the third man, the idler.' He looked at Cal as though this coincidence verged on the miraculous, and would now fuel hours of debate. But all Cal could think of to say was: ‘Dogs.'

‘That's right,' said the other man, delighted that they were of one accord on the issue. ‘He's got five. Only one died.'

‘Pity,' said Cal.

‘Not really. It was fuckin' blind in one eye and couldn't see in the other.'

The man guffawed at this observation, which promptly brought the exchange to a dead halt. Cal turned his attention back to the birds, and he grinned to see - there on the upper window-ledge of the house - his bird.

‘I see him,' he said.

Gideon followed his gaze. ‘What's that then?'

‘My pigeon. He escaped.'

Cal pointed. ‘There. In the middle of the sill. See him?'

All three now looked. ‘Worth something is he?' said the idler.

‘Trust you, Bazo,' Shane commented.

‘Just asking,' Bazo replied.

‘He's won prizes,' said Cal, with some pride. He was keeping his eyes glued to 33, but the pigeon showed no sign of wanting to fly; just preened his wing feathers, and once in a while turned a beady eye up to the sky.

‘Stay there...' Cal told the bird under his breath,'... don't move.'

Then, to Gideon: ‘Is it all right if I go in? Try and catch him?'

‘Help yourself. The old girl who had the house's been carted off to hospital. We're taking the furniture to pay her bills.'

Cal ducked through into the yard, negotiating the bric-a-brac the trio had dumped there, and went into the house.

It was a shambles inside. If the occupant had ever owned anything of substance it had long since been removed. The few pictures still hanging were worthless: the furniture was old, but not old enough to have come back into fashion; the rugs, cushions and curtains so aged they were fit only for the incinerator. The walls and ceilings were stained by many years accrual of smoke, its source the candles that sat on every shelf and sill, stalactites of yellowed wax depending from them.

He made his way through the warren of pokey, dark rooms, and into the hallway. The scene was just as dispiriting here. The brown linoleum tucked up and torn, and everywhere the pervasive smell of must and dust and creeping rot, she was well out of this squalid place, Cal thought, wherever better off in hospital, where at least the sheets were dry.

He began to climb the stairs. It was a curious sensation ascending into the murk of the upper storey, becoming blinder stair by stair, with the sound of birds scurrying across the slates above his skull, and beyond that the muted cries of gull and crow. Though it was no doubt self-deception, he seemed to hear their voices circling as though this very place were the centre of their attentions. An image appeared in his head, of a photograph from National Geographical. A study of stars, taken with a slow release camera, the pin-point lights describing circles as they moved, or appeared to move, across the sky, with the Pole Star, the Nail of Heaven, steady in their midst.

The wheeling sound, and the picture it evoked, began to dizzy him. He suddenly felt weak, even afraid.

This was no time for such frailties, he chided himself. He had to claim the bird before it flew off again. He picked up his pace. At the top of the stairs he manoeuvred past several items of bedroom furniture, and opened one of the several doors that he was presented with. The room he had chosen was adjacent to the one whose sill 33 occupied. Sun streamed through the curtainless window; the stale heat brought fresh sweat to his brow. The room had been emptied of furniture, the only souvenir of occupancy a calendar for the year 1961. On it, a photograph of a lion beneath a tree, its shaggy, monolithic head laid on vast paws, its gaze contemplative.

Cal went out on to the landing again, selected another door, and was this time delivered into the right room. There, beyond the grimy glass, was the pigeon.

Now it was all a question of tactics. He had to be careful not to startle the bird. He approached the window cautiously. 0n the sun-drenched sill 33 cocked its head, and blinked its eyes but made no move. Cal held his breath, and put his hand on the frame to haul the window up, but there was no budging it. A quick perusal showed why. The frame had been sealed up years ago, a dozen or more nails driven deep into the wood. A primitive form of crime prevention, but no doubt reassuring to an old woman living alone.

From the yard below, he heard Gideon's voice. Peering down, he could just sec the trio dragging a large rolled-up carpet out of the house, Gideon giving orders in a ceaseless stream.

‘- to my left, Bazo. Left! Don't you know which is your left?'

‘I'm going left.'

‘Not your left, yer idiot. My left.'

The bird on the sill was undisturbed by this commotion. It seemed quite happy on its perch.

Cal headed basic downstairs, deciding as he went that the only option remaining was to climb up on to the yard wall and see if he couldn't coax the bird down from there. He cursed himself for not having brought a pocketful of grain. Coos and sweet words would just have to do.

By the time he stepped out into the heat of the yard once more, the removal men had successfully manhandled the carpet out of the house, and were taking a rest after their exertions.

‘No luck?' said Shane, seeing Cal emerge.

The window won't budge. I'll have to try from down here.'

He caught a deprecating look from Bazo. ‘You'll never reach the bugger from here,' rite man said, scratching the expanse of beer-gut that gleamed between T-shirt and belt.

‘I'll try from the wall; said Cal.

‘Watch yerself-' Gideon said.

‘Thanks.'

‘- you could break yer back-.'

Using pits in the crumbling mortar for foothold, Cal hauled himself up on to the eight-toot wall that divided this yard from its neighbour.

The sun was hot on his neck and the top of his head, and thing of the giddiness he'd experienced climbing the stairs returned. He straddled the wall as though it were a horse, until he got used to the height. Though the perch was the width of a brick, and offered ample enough walking space, heights and he had never been happy companions.

‘Looks like it's been a nice piece of handiwork,' said Gideon, in the yard below. Cal glanced own to see that the West Indian was now on his haunches beside the carpet, which he'd rolled out far enough to expose an elaborately woven border.

Bazo wandered over to where Gideon crouched, and scrutinized the property. He was balding, Cal could see, his hair scrupulously pasted down with oil to conceal the spot.

‘Pity it's not in better nick,' said Shane.

‘Hold yer horses; said Bazo. ‘Let's have a better look.'

Cal returned his attention to the problem of standing upright. At least the carpet would divert his audience for a few moments; long enough, he prayed, for him to get to his feet. There was no breath of wind here to alleviate the fury of the sun; he could feel sweat trickle down his torso and glue his underwear to his buttocks. Gingerly, he started to stand, bringing one leg up into a kneeling position - both hands; dinging to the brick like grim death.

From below, there were murmurs of approval as more of the carpet was exposed to light.

‘Look at the work in that; said Gideon.

‘Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin?' said Bazo, his voice lowered.

‘I don't know ‘til you tell me,' came Gideon's reply.

‘What say we take it down to Gilchrist's. We might get a price for this.'

‘The Chief'll know it's gone,' Shane protested.

‘Keep it down; said Bazo, quietly reminding his companions of Cal's presence. In fad Cal was far too concerned with his inept tight-rope act to bother himself with their petty theft. He had finally got the soles of both feet up on to the top of the wall, and was about to try standing up.

In the yard, the conversation went on.

Take the far end, Shane, let's have a look at the whole thing...

‘D'you think it's Persian?'

‘Haven't a fuckin' clue.'

Very slowly, Cal stood upright, his arms extended at ninety degrees from his body. Feeling as stable as he was ever going to feel, he chanced a quick look up at the window sill. The bird was still there.

From below he heard the sound of the carpet being unrolled further, the men's grunts punctuated with words of admiration.

Ignoring their presence as best he could, he took his first faltering step along the wall.

‘Hey there...' he murmured to the escapee'... remember me?'

33 took no notice. Cal advanced a second trembling step, and a third, his confidence growing. He was getting the trick of this balancing business now.

‘Come on down,' he coaxed, a prosaic Romeo.

The bird finally seemed to recognize his owner's voice, and cocked his head in Cal's direction.

‘Here, boy...' Cal said, tentatively raising his hand towards the window as he risked another step.

At that instant either his foot slipped or the brick gave way beneath his heel. He heard himself loose a yell of alarm, which panicked the birds lining the sill. They were up and off, their wing-beats ironic applause, as he flailed on the wall. His panicked gaze went first to his feet, then to the yard below.

No, not the yard; that had disappeared. It was the carpet he saw. It had been entirely unrolled, and it filled the yard from wall to wall.

What happened next occupied mere seconds, but either his mind was lightning fast, or the moments played truant, for it seemed he had all the time he needed Time to appreciate the startling intricacy of the design laid out beneath him; an awesome proliferation of exquisitely executed detail. Age had bled brightness from the colours of the weave, mellowing vermilion to rose, and cobalt to a chalky blue, and here and there the carpet had become thread-bare, but from where Cal teetered the effect was still overwhelming. Every inch of the carpet was worked with motifs. Even the border brimmed with designs, all subtly different from their neighbours. The effect was not over-busy; every detail was dear to Cal's feasting eyes. In one place a dozen motifs congregated as if banded together; in another, they stood apart rival siblings. Some kept their station along the border; others spilled into the main field, as if eager to join the teeming throng there.

In the field itself ribbons of colour described arabesques across a background of sultry browns and greens, forms that were pure abstraction - bright jottings from some wild man's diary - jostling with stylized flora and fauna. But this complexity paled beside the centre piece of the carpet: a huge medallion, its colours as various as a summer garden; into which a hundred subtle geometries had been cunningly woven, so that the eye could read each pattern as flower or theorem, order or turmoil, and find each choice echoed somewhere in the grand design.

He saw all of this in one prodigious glance. In his second the vision laid before him began to change.

From the comer of his eye he registered that the rest of the world - the yard, and the men who'd occupied it, the houses: the wall he'd been toppling from - all were winking out of existence. Suddenly he was hanging in the air, the carpet vaster by the moment beneath him, its glorious configurations filling his head.

The design was shifting, he saw. The knots were restless, trembling to slip themselves, and the colours seemed to be merging into each other, new forms springing from this marriage of dyes.

Implausible as it seemed, the carpet was coming to life.

A landscape - or rather a confusion of landscapes thrown together in fabulous disarray - was emerging from the warp and the weft. Was that not a mountain he could see below him, pressing its head up through a cloud of colour?; and was that not a river?; and could he not hear its roar as it fell in white water torrents into a shadowed gorge? There was a world below him.

And he was suddenly a bird, a wingless bird hovering for a breathless instant on a balmy, sweet-scented wind, sole witness to the miracle sleeping below.

There was more to claim his eye with every thump of his heart.

A lake, with myriad islands-dotting its placid waters like breaching whales. A dappled quilt of fields, their grasses and grains swept by the same tides of air that kept him aloft. Velvet woodland seeping up the sleek flank of a hill, on whose pinnacle a watchtower perched, sun and cloud-shadow drifting across its white walls.

There were other signs of habitation too, though nothing of the people themselves. A duster of dwellings hugging a river bend; several houses beetling along the edge of a cliff, tempting gravity. And a town too, laid out in a city-planner's nightmare, half its streets hopelessly serpentine, the other half cul-de-sacs.

The same casual indifference to organization was evident everywhere, he saw. Zones temperate and intemperate, fruitful and barren were thrown together in defiance of all laws geological or climatic, as if by a God whose taste was for contradiction.

How fine it would be to walk there, he thought, with so much variety pressed into so little space, not knowing whether turning the next comer would bring ice or fire. Such complexity was beyond the wit of a cartographer. To be there, in that world, would be to live a perpetual adventure.

And at the centre of this burgeoning province, perhaps the most awesome sight of all. A mass of slate-coloured cloud, the innards of which were in perpetual, spiralling motion. The sight reminded him of the birds wheeling above the house in flue Street - an echo of this greater wheel.

At the thought of them, and the place he'd left behind, he heard their voices - and in that moment the wind that had swept up from the world below, keeping him aloft, faltered.

He felt the horror in his stomach first, and then his bowels: he was going to fail.

The tumult of the birds grew louder, crowing their delight at his descent. He, the usurper of their element; he, who had snatched a glimpse of a miracle, would now be dashed to death upon it.

He staved to yell, but the speed of his fall stole the cry from his tongue. The air roared in his ears and tore at his hair. He tried to spread his arms to slow his descent but the attempt instead threw him head over heels, and over again, until he no longer knew earth from sky. There was some mercy in this, he dimly thought. At least he'd be blind to death's proximity. Just tumbling and tumbling until - the world went out.

He fell through a darkness unrelieved by stars, the birds still loud in his ears, and hit the ground, hard.

It hurt, and went on hurting, which struck him as odd. Oblivion, he'd always assumed, would be a painless condition. And soundless too. But there were voices.

‘Say something...' one of them demanded, ‘... if it's only goodbye.'

There was laughter now.

He opened his eyes a hair's breadth. The sun was blindingly bright, until Gideon's bulk eclipsed it.

‘Have you broken anything?' the man wanted to know.

Cal opened his eyes a fraction wider.

‘Say something, man.'

He raised his head a few inches, and looked about him. He was lying in the yard, on the carpet.

‘What happened?'

‘You fell off the wall,' said Shane.

‘Must have missed your footing,' Gideon suggested.

‘Fell,' Cal said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He felt nauseous.

‘Don't think you've done much damage,' said Gideon. ‘A few scrapes, that's all.'

Cal ‘looked down at himself, verifying the man's remark. He'd taken skin off his right arm from wrist to elbow, and there was tenderness down his body where he'd hit the ground, but there were no sharp pains. The only real harm was to his dignity, and that was seldom fatal.

He got to his feet, wincing, eyes to the ground. The weave was playing dumb. There was no tell-tale tremor in the rows of knots, no sign that hidden heights and depths were about to make themselves known. Nor was there any sign from the others that they'd seen anything miraculous. To all intents and purposes the carpet beneath his feet was simply that: a carpet.

He hobbled towards the yard gate, offering a muttered thanks to Gideon. As he stepped out into the alley, Bazo said: ‘Yer bird flew off.'

Cal gave a small shrug and went on his way.

What had he just experienced? An hallucination, brought on by too much sun or too little breakfast? If so, it had been startlingly real. He looked up at the birds, still circling overhead: They sensed something untoward here too; that was why they'd gathered. Either that, or they and he were sharing the same delusion.

All, in sum, that he could be certain of was his bruising. That, and the fact that though he was standing no more than two miles from his father's house, in the city in which he'd spent his entire life, he felt as homesick as a lost child.

IV

CONTACT

Immacolata crossed the width of heat-raddled pavement between the-steps of the hotel and the shaded interior of Shadwell's Mercedes, she suddenly let out a cry. Her hand went to her head, the sunglasses she always wore in the Kingdom's public places falling from her face.

Shadwell was swiftly out of the car, and opening the door, but his passenger shook her head.

‘Too bright,' she murmured, and stumbled back through the swing-doors into the vestibule of the hotel. It was deserted. Shadwell came in swift pursuit, to find Immacolata standing as far from the door as her legs would carry her. The wraith-sisters were guarding her, their presences distressing the stale air, but he couldn't prevent himself from snatching the opportunity, in the guise of legitimate concern, to reach and touch the woman. Such contact was anathema to her, and a joy to him made more potent because she forbade it. He was obliged therefore to exploit any occasion when he might pass such contact off as accidental.

The ghosts chilled his skin with their disapproval, but Immacolata was quite able to protect her inviolability. She turned, her eyes raging at his presumption. He immediately removed his hand from her arm, his fingers tingling. He would count the minutes until he had a private moment in which to put them to his lips.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I was concerned.'

A voice intervened. The receptionist had emerged from his room, a copy of Sporting Life in hand.

‘Can I be of help?' he offered.

‘No, no...' said Shadwell.

The receptionist's eyes were not on him, however, but on Immacolata.

Touch of heat stroke, is it?' he said.

‘Maybe,' said Shadwell. Immacolata had moved to the bottom of the stairs, out of the receptionist's enquiring gaze. Thank you for your concern. The receptionist made a face, and returned to his armchair. Shadwell went to Immacolata. She had found the shadows; or the shadows had found her.

‘What happened?' he said. ‘Was it just the sun?'

She didn't look at him, but she deigned to speak.

‘I felt the Fugue...' she said, so softly he had to hold his breath to catch her words ‘... then something else.'

He waited for further news from her, but none came. Then, as he was about to break the silence, she said: ‘At the back of my throat...' She swallowed, as if to dislodge some remembered bitterness ‘... the Scourge...'

The Scourge? Had he heard her correctly? Either Immacolata sensed his doubt, or shared it, for she said: ‘it was there. Shadwell,' and when she spoke even her extraordinary self-control couldn't quite tame the flutter in her voice.

‘Surely you're mistaken.'

She made a tiny shake of her head.

‘It's dead and gone,' he said.

Her face could have been chiselled from stone. Only her lips moved, and he longed for them, despite the thoughts they shaped.

‘A power like that doesn't die,' she said. ‘It can't ever die. It sleeps. It waits.'

‘What for? Why?'

‘Till the Fugue wakes, maybe,' she said.

Her eyes had lost their gold; become silvery. Motes of the menstruum, turning like dust in a sun-beam, dropped from her lashes and evaporated inches from his face. He'd never seen her like this before, so close to exposing her feelings. The spectacle of her vulnerability aroused him beyond words. His prick was so hard it ached. She was apparently dead to his arousal however; or else chose to ignore it. The Magdalene, the blind sister, was not so indifferent. She, Shadwell knew, had an appetite for what a man might spill, and horrid purposes to put it to. Even now he saw her form coagulating in a recess in the wall, one hunger from scalp to sole.

‘I saw a wilderness,' Immacolata said, calling Shawl's attention from the Magdalene's advances. ‘Bright sun. Terrible sun. The emptiest place on earth.'

‘And that's where the Scourge is now?'

She nodded. ‘It's sleeping. I think... it's forgotten itself.'

‘It'll stay that way, then, won't it?'

Shadwell replied. ‘Who the hell's going to wake it?'

His words failed to convince even himself.

‘Look he said, ‘- we'll find the Fugue and sell it before the Scourge can so much as roll over. We haven't come so far to stop now.'

Immacolata said nothing. Her eyes were still fixed on that nowhere she'd sighted, or tasted - or both - minutes earlier.

Only very dimly did Shadwell comprehend what forces were at work here: Finally, he was only a Cuckoo - a human being - and that limited his vision; for which fact, as now, he was sometimes grateful.

One thing he did comprehend: the Fugue trailed legends. In the years of their search he'd heard it reported so many ways, from cradle-song to death-bed confession, and he'd long ago given up attempting to sort fact from fiction. All that mattered was that the many and the mighty longed for that place, spoke of it in their prayers, without knowing - most of them - that it was real; or had been. And what a profit he would turn when he had that dream on the block: there had never been a sale its like, or ever would be again. They could not give up now. Not for fear of something lost in time and sleep.

‘It knows. Shadwell,' Immacolata said. ‘Even in its sleep, it knows.'

Had he had the words to persuade her from her fear she would have been contemptuous of them instead, he played the pragmatist.

‘The sooner we find the carpet and dispose of it the happier we'll all be.' he said.

The response seemed to stir her from the wilderness.

‘Maybe in a while,' she replied, her eyes flickering towards him for the first time since they'd stepped off the street.'

Maybe then we'll go looking.'

All sign of the menstruum had abruptly vanished. The moment of doubt had passed, and the old certainty was back. She would pursue the Fugue to the end, he knew,-as, they had always planned. No tumour - even of the Scourge would deflect her from her malice.

‘We may lose the trail if we don't hurry.'

‘I doubt that,' she said. ‘We'll wait. Until the heat dies down.'

Ah, so this was to be his punishment for that ill-considered touch. It was his heat she made mocking reference to, not that of the city outside. He would be obliged to wait her pleasure, as he had waited before, and bear his stripes in silence. Not just because she alone could track the Fugue by the rhythm of its woven life, but because to wait another hour in her company, bathing in the scent of her breath, was an agony he would gladly endure.

For him it was a ritual of crime and punishment which would keep him hard for the rest of the day.

For her, the power his desire lent her remained a diverting curiosity. Furnaces, after all, grew cold if left unstoked. Even stars went out after a millennium. But the lust of Cuckoos, like so much else about that species, defied all the rules. The less it was fed, the hotter it became.

V

BEFORE THE DARK

1

In all, Suzanna had probably met her maternal grandmother less than a dozen times. Even as a child, before she'd fully understood the words, she'd been taught that the old woman was not to be trusted, though she could not remember ever hearing a reason offered as to why. The mud had stuck however. Though in her early adulthood - she was now 24 - she had learned to view her parents' Prejudices with a critical eye, and come to suspect that whatever their anxiety regarding her grandmother it was likely to be perfectly irrational - she could nevertheless not entirely forget the mythology that had grown up around Mimi Laschenski.

The very name was a stumbling block. To the ear of a child it sounded more like a faery-tale curse than a name. And indeed there had been much about the woman that supported such a fiction. Suzanna remembered Mimi as being small, with skin that was always slightly jaundiced, her black hair (which with hindsight, was probably dyed) drawn back tightly from a face which she doubted capable of a smile. Perhaps Mimi had reason for grief. Her first husband, who had been some sort of circus performer, had disappeared before the Great War; run away, the family gossip went, because Mimi was such a harridan. The second husband, Suzanna's grandfather, had died of lung cancer in his early forties; smoked himself to death. Since then the old woman had lived in increasingly eccentric isolation, alienated from her children and grand children alike, in a house in Liverpool; a house to which - at Mimi's enigmatic request - Suzanna was about to pay a long-delayed visit.

As she drove North she turned over her memories of Mimi, and of that house. She recalled it being substantially larger than her parents' place in Bristol had been; and darker. A house that had not been painted since before the Flood, a stale house, a house in mourning. And the more she remembered, the gloomier she became.

In the private story-book of her head this trip back to Mimi's was a return to the mire of childhood; a reminder not of blissful, careless years, but of an anxious, blinkered state from which adulthood had liberated her. And Liverpool had been that state's metropolis; a city of perpetual dusk, where the air smelt of cold smoke and a colder river. When she thought of it she was a child again, and frightened of dreams.

Of course she'd shrugged off those fears years ago. Here she was, at the wheel of her car, perfect mistress of herself, driving in the fast lane with the sun on her face. What hold could those old anxieties have over her now? Yet as she drove she found herself drawing to her keepsakes from her present life, like talismans to keep that city at bay.

She thought of the studio she'd left behind in London, and the pots she'd left to be glazed and fired when - in just a little while - she got back. She remembered Finnegan, and the flirtatious dinner she'd had with him two nights ago. She thought of her friends, robust and articulate people, any of a dozen of whom she'd trust her fife and sanity to. With so such clarity to arm her, she could surely re-tread the paths of her childhood and remain untainted. She travelled a broader, brighter highway now.

The memories were still potent.

Some, like her picturing of Mimi and the house, were images she'd recalled before. One in particular, however, emerged item some hidden niche in her head, unvisited since the day she'd sealed it up there.

The episode didn't come, as many had, piece by piece. It flashed before her all at once, in astonishing particularity. She was six. They were in Mimi's house, she and her mother, and it was November - wasn't it always? - drear and cold. They'd come on one of their rare visits to Gran'ma, a duty which father had always been spared.

She saw Mimi now, sitting in an armchair near to a fire that barely warmed the soot in the grate. Her fare - soared and sad to the brink of tragedy - was pale with powder, the brows meticulously plucked, the eyes glittering even in the dour tight through the lace curtains.

She spoke; and her soft syllables drowned out the din of the motorway.

‘Suzanna...'

Addressed from the past, she listened.

‘... I've something for you.'

The child's heart had fallen from its place, and thumped around in her belly.

‘Say thank you, Suzie,' her mother chided.

The child did as she was told.

‘It's upstairs; Mimi said, ‘in my bedroom. You can go and get it for yourself, can't you? It's all wrapped up, at the bottom of the tall-boy.'

‘Go on, Suzie.'

She felt her mother's hand on her arm, pushing her away towards the door.

‘Hurry up now.'

She glanced at her mother, then back at Mimi. There was no mercy to be had from either. They would have her up those stairs, and no protest would mellow them. She left the room and went to the bottom of the stairs. They were a mountain-face before her; and the darkness at the summit a terror she tried not to contemplate. In any other house she would not have been so fearful. But this was Mimi's house; Mimi's darkness.

She climbed, her hand clinging to the bannister, certain that something terrible awaited her on every stair. But she reached the top without being devoured, and crossed the landing to her grandmother's bedroom. The drapes were barely parted; what little light fell between was the colour of old stone. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, at a quarter the speed of her pulse. On the wall above the clock, gazing down the length of the head-high bed was an oval portrait photograph of a man in a suit that was buttoned up to the neck. And to the left of the mantelpiece, across a carpet that killed her footsteps, was the tall-boy, twice her size and more.

She went to it quickly, determined - now that she was in the room - to do the deed and be out before the ticking had its way with her and slowed her heart ‘til it stopped.

Reaching up, she turned the chilly handle. The door opened a little. From inside bloomed the smell of moth-balls, shoe leather and lavender water. Ignoring the gowns that hung in the shadows she plunged her hand amongst the boxes and tissue paper at the bottom of the tall-boy, hoping to chance upon the present.

In her haste, she pushed the door, wide - and something wild-eyed lurched out of the darkness towards her. She screamed. It mocked her, screaming back in her face. Then she was running towards the door, tripping on the carpet in her flight, before hurtling downstairs.

Her mother was in the hallway ‘What is it, Suzie?'

There were no words to tell. Instead she threw herself into her mother's arms - though, as ever, there was that moment when they seemed to hesitate before chasing to hold her - and sobbed that she wanted to go home. Nor, would she be placated, even after Mimi had gone upstairs and returned saying something about the mirror in the tall-boy door.

They'd left the house soon after that, and, as far as she could now recall, Suzanna had never since entered Mimi's bedroom. As for the gift, it had not been mentioned again.

That was the bare bones of the memory, but there was much else - perfumes; sounds; nuances of light - that fleshed those bones. The incident, once exhumed, had more authority than events both more recent and ostensibly more significant. She could not now conjure - nor would ever, she suspected - the face of the boy to whom she'd given her virginity, But she would remember the smell from Mimi's tall-boy as though It were still in her lungs.

Memory was so strange.

And stranger still, the letter, at the beck of which she was making this journey.

It was the first missive she'd received from her grandmother for over a decade. That fact alone would have been sufficient to have her foresake the studio and come. But the message itself, spindly scrawlings on an air-mail paper page, had lent her further speed. She'd left London as soon as the summons had arrived, as if she'd known and loved the woman who'd written it for half a hundred years:

Suzanna. it had begun. Not Dear nor Dearest. Simply:

Suzanna, Forgive my scribbles. I'm sick at the moment. I feel weak some hours, and not so weak others. Who knows how I'll feel tomorrow? That's why I'm writing to you now, Suzanna, because I'm afraid of what may happen.

Will you come to see me, at the house? We have very much to say to each other, I think. Things I didn't want to say, but now I have to.

None of this will make much sense to you, I know, that I can't be plain, not in a letter. There are good reasons.

Please come. Things are different to the way I thought they'd be. We can talk, the way we should have talked many years ago.

My love to you, Suzanna, Mimi.

The letter was like a midsummer lake. Its surface placid, but beneath?; such darkness. Things are different to the way I thought they'd be, Mimi had written. What did she mean? That life was over too soon, and her sunlit youth had contained no clue as to how bitter mortality would be? The letter had been delayed, through the vagaries of the postal service, by over a week. When, upon getting it, she'd rung Mimi's house she'd received only the number disconnected tone. Leaving the pots she was making unfinished, she had packed a bag and driven North.

2

She went straight to Rue Street, but number eighteen was empty. Sixteen was also deserted, but at the next house a grid woman by the name of Violet Pumphrey was able to offer some explanation. Mimi had fallen sick a few days earlier, and was now in Sefton General Hospital, close to death. Her creditors, which included the Gas and Electricity Boards, and the Council, in addition to a dozen suppliers of food and drink, had immediately made moves to claim some recompense.

‘Like vultures, they were,' said Mrs Pumphrey, ‘and her not even dead yet. It's shameful. There they were, taking everything they could lay their hands on. Mind you, she was difficult. Hope you don't mind my being plain, love? But she was. Kept herself hidden away in the house most of the time. It was a bloody fortress. That's why they waited, see? ‘til she was peggin' out. If they'd tried to get in with her there they'd have still been tryin'.'

Had they taken the tall-boy? Suzanna idly wondered. Thanking Mrs Pumphrey for her help, she went back to have another look at number eighteen - its roof so covered in bird-shit it looked to have had its own private blizzard - then went on to the hospital.

3

The nurse wore her show of compassion indifferently well. ‘I'm afraid Mrs Laschenski's very sick. Are you a close relative?'

‘I'm her grand-daughter. Has anybody else been to see her?'

‘Not that I know of. There really isn't that much point. She's had a major stroke, Miss-.'

‘Parrish. Suzanna Parrish.'

‘Your grandmother's unconscious most of the time, I'm afraid.'

‘I see.'

‘So please don't expect too much.'

The nurse led her down a short corridor to a room that was so quiet Suzanna could have heard a petal drop, but that there were no flowers. She wasn't unfamiliar with death rooms; ha mother and father had died three years before, within six months of each other. She recognised the scent, and the hush, as soon as she stepped inside.

‘She's not been awake today,' said the nurse, as she stood back to let Mind's visitor approach the bed.

Suzanna's first thought was that there'd been some colossal error. This couldn't be Mimi. This poor woman was too frail: too white. The objection was on the tip of her tongue when she realized that the error was hers. Though the hair of the woman in the bed was so thin that her scalp gleamed through, and the skin of her fare was draped slackly on her skull like wet muslin, this was, nevertheless, Mini. Robbed of power; reduced by some malfunction of nerve and muscle to this unwelcome passivity; but still Mimi.

Tears rose in Suzanna, seeing her grandmother tacked up like a child, except that she was sleeping not in preparation for a new day but for endless night. She had been so fierce, this woman, and so resolute. Now all that strength had gone, and forever...

‘Shall I leave you alone a while?' said the nurse, and without waiting for a reply, withdrew. Suzanna put her hand to her brow to keep the tears at bay.

When she looked again, the old woman's blue-veined lids were flickering open.

For a moment it seemed Mimi's eyes had focused somewhere beyond Suzanna. Then the gaze sharpened, and the look that found Suzanna was as compelling as she had remembered it.

Mimi opened her mouth. Her lips were fever-dried. She passed her tongue across them to little effect. Utterly unnerved, Suzanna approached the bedside.

‘Hello" she said softly. ‘It's me. It's Suzanna.'

The old woman's eyes locked with Suzanna's. I know who you are, the stare said.

‘Would you like some water?'

A tiny frown nicked Mimi's brow.

‘Water?' Suzanna repeated, and again, the tiniest of frowns by way of reply. They understood each other.

Suzanna poured an inch of water from the plastic jug on the bedside table into a plastic glass, and took the glass to Mimi's lips. As she did so the old woman lifted her hand a fraction from the crisp sheet and brushed Suzanna's arm. The touch was feather-light, but it sent such a jolt through Suzanna that she almost dropped the glass.

Mimi's breath had suddenly become uneven, and there were tics and twitches around her eyes and mouth as she struggled to shape a word. Her eyes blazed with frustration, but the most she could produce was a grunt in her threat.

‘It's all right,' said Suzanna.

The look on the parchment face refused such platitudes. No, the eyes said, it isn't all right, it's very far from all right. Death is waiting at the door, and I can't even speak the feelings I have.

‘What is it?' Suzanna whispered, bending closer to the pillow. The old woman's fingers still trembled against her arm. Her skin tingled at the contact, her stomach churned. ‘How can I help you?' she said. It was the vaguest of questions, but she was shooting in the dark.

Mimi's ryes flickered dosed for an instant, and the frown deepened. She had given up trying to make words, apparently. Perhaps she had given up entirely.

And then, with a suddenness that made Suzanna cry out, the fingers that rested on her arm slid around her wrist. The grip tightened ‘til it hurt. She might have pulled herself tree, but she had no time. A subtle marriage of scents was filling her head: dust and tissue-paper and lavender: The tall-boy of course; it was the perfume from the tall-boy. And with that recognition, another certainty: that Mimi was somehow reaching into Suzanna's head and putting the perfume there. There was an instant of panic the animal in her responding to this defeat of her mind's autonomy. Then the panic broke before a vision.

Of what, she wasn't certain. A pattern of some kind, a which melted and reconfigured itself over and over again Perhaps there was colour in the design, but it was so subtle she could not be certain; subtle too, the shapes evolving in the kaleidoscope.

This, like the perfume, was Mimi's doing. Though reason protested, Suzanna couldn't doubt the truth of that. This image was somehow of vital significance to the old lady. That was why she was using the last drops of her will's resources to have Suzanna share the sight in her mind's eye.

But she had no chance to investigate the vision.

Behind her, the nurse said: ‘Oh my god.' The voice broke Mimi's spell, and the patterns burst into a storm of petals, disappearing. Suzanna was left staring down at Mimi's fare, their gazes momentarily locking before the old woman lost all control of her wracked body. The hand dropped from Suzanna's wrist, the eyes began to rove back and forth grotesquely; dark spittle ran from the side of her mouth.

‘You'd better wait outside,' the nurse said, crossing to press the call button beside the bed.

Suzanna backed off towards the door, distressed by the choking sounds her grandmother was making. A second nurse had appeared.

‘Call Doctor Chai,' the first said. Then, to Suzanna, ‘Please, will you wait outside?'

She did as she was told: there was nothing she could do inside but hamper the experts. The corridor was busy: she had to walk twenty yards from the door of Mimi's room before she found somewhere she could take hold of herself.

Her thoughts were like blind runners; they rushed back and forth wildly, but went nowhere. Time and again, she found memory taking her to Mimi's bedroom in Rue Street, the tall-boy looming before her like some reproachful ghost. What had Gran'ma wanted to tell her, with the scent of lavender?; and how had she managed the extraordinary test of passing thoughts between them? Was it something she'd always been capable of? It so, what other powers did she own?

‘Are you Suzanna Parrish? Here at least was a question she could answer.

‘Yes.'

‘I'm Doctor Chai.'

The face before her was round as a biscuit, and as bland.

‘Your grandmother, Mrs Laschenski...'

‘Yes?,... there's been a serious deterioration in her condition. Are you her only relative?'

The only one in this country. My mother and father are dead. She has a son. In Canada.'

‘Do you have any way of contacting him?'

‘1 don't have his telephone number with me ... but I could get it.'

‘I think he should be informed,' said Chai.

‘Yes, of course.' said Suzanna. ‘What should I... ? I mean, can you tell me how long she's going to live?'

The Doctor sighed. ‘Anybody's guess,' he said. ‘When she came in I didn't think she'd last the night. But she did. And the next. And the next. She's just kept holding on. Her tenacity's really remarkable.'

He halted, looking straight at Suzanna. ‘My belief is, she was waiting for you.'

For me?'

‘I think so. Your name's the only coherent word she's spoken since she's been here. I don't think she was going to let go until you'd come.'

‘I sec, ‘said Suzanna.

‘You must be very important to her,' he replied. ‘It's good you've seen her. So many of the old folks, you know, die in here and nobody ever seems to care. Where are you staying?'

‘I hadn't thought. A hotel, I suppose.'

‘Perhaps you'd give us a number to contact you at, should the necessity arise.'

‘Of course.'

So saying, he nodded and left her to the runners. They were no less blind for the conversation.

Mimi Laschenski did not love her, as the Doctor had claimed; how could she? She knew nothing of the way her grandchild had grown up; they were like closed books to each other: And yet something in what Chai had said rang true. Perhaps she had been waiting, fighting the good fight until her daughter's daughter came to her bedside.

And why? To hold her hand and expend her last ounce of energy giving Suzanna a fragment of some tapestry? It was a pretty gift, but it signified either too much or too little. Whichever, Suzanna did not comprehend it.

She went back to Room Five. The nurse was in attendance: the old lady still as stone on her pillow. Eyes closed, hands laid by her side. Suzanna stared down at the face, slack once more. It could tell her nothing.

She took hold of Mimi's hand and held it for a few moments, tight, then went on her way. She would go back to Rue Street, she decided, and see if being in the house jogged a memory or two.

She'd spent so much time forgetting her childhood, putting it where it couldn't tail the bluff of hard-won maturity. And now, with the boxes sealed, what did she find? A mystery that defied her adult self, and coaxed her back into the pass fn search of a solution.

She remembered the face in the tall-boy mirror, that had sent her robbing down the stairs.

Was it waiting still? And was it still her own?

VI

MAD MOONEY

Cal was frightened as he had never been frightened in his life before. He sat in his room, the door locked, and shook.

The shaking had begun a few minute's after events at Rue Street, almost twenty-four hours ago now, and it hadn't shown much sign of stopping since. Sometimes it made his hands tremble so much he could hardly hold the glass of whisky he'd nursed through an all but sleepless night, other times it made his teeth chatter. But most of the shaking didn't go on outside, it was in. It was as if the pigeons had got into his belly somehow, and were flapping their wings against his innards.

And all because he'd seen something wonderful, and he knew in his bones that his life would never be the same again. How could it? He'd climbed the sky and looked down on the secret place that he'd been waiting since childhood to find.

He'd always been a solitary child, as much through choice as circumstance, happiest when he could unshackle his imagination and let it wander. It took little to get such journeys started. Looking back, it seemed he'd spent half his school days gazing out of the window, transported by a line of poetry whose meaning he couldn't quite unearth, or the sound of someone singing in a distant classroom, into a world more pungent and more remote than the one he knew: A world whose scents were carried to his nostrils by winds mysteriously warm in a chill December; whose creatures paid him homage on certain nights at the foot of his bed, and whose peoples he conspired with in sleep.

But despite the familiarity of this place, the comfort he felt there, its precise nature and location remained elusive, and though he'd read every book he could find that promised some rare territory, he always came away disappointed: They were too perfect, those childhood kingdoms; all honey and summer. The true Wonderland was not like that, he knew. It was as much shadow as sunlight, and its mysteries could only be unveiled when your wits were about used up and your mind dose to cracking.

That was why he trembled now, for that was how he felt. Like a man whose head was about to split.

2

He'd woken early, gone downstairs and cooked himself a fried egg and bacon sandwich, then sat with the ruins of his gluttony until he heard his father stirring above. He quickly called the firm, and told Wilcox that he was sick, and wouldn't be in work today. He told the same to Brendan - who was about his morning ablutions and, with the door located, couldn't see the ashen, anxious face his son was wearing this morning. Then, these duties done, he went back to his room and sat on his bed to examine the events at Rue Street afresh, hoping that the nature of yesterday's mysteries could eventually be made to come dear.

It did little good. Whichever way he turned events they seemed impervious to rational explanation, and he was left only with the same razor-sharp memory of the experience and the ache of longing that came with it.

Everything he'd ever wanted had been in that land; he knew it. Everything his education had taught him to disbelieve, all miracles, all mystery, all blue shadow and sweet-breathed spirits. All the pigeon knew, all the wind knew, all the human world had once grasped and now forgotten, all of it was waiting in that place. He'd seen it with his own eyes.

Which probably made him insane.

Haw else could he explain an hallucination of such precision and complexity? No, he was insane. And why not? He had lunacy in his blood. His father's father, Mad Mooney, ended his life crazy as a coot. The man had been a poet, according to Brendan, though tales of his life and times had been forbidden in Chariot Street. Hush your nonsense Eileen had always said, whenever Brendan mentioned the man, though whether this taboo was against Poetry, Delirium or the Irish Cal had never decided. Whichever, it was an edict his father had often broken when his wife's back was turned, for Brendan was fond of Mad Mooney and his verses. Cal had even learned a few, at his father's knee. And now here he was, carrying on that family tradition: seeing visions and crying into his whisky.

The question was: to tell or not to tell. To speak what he'd seen, and endure the laughter and the sly looks, or to keep it hidden. Part of him badly wanted to talk, to spill everything to somebody Brendan, even) and see what they made of it. But another part said: be quiet, be careful. Wonderland doesn't come to those who blab about it, only to those who keep their silence, and wait.

So that's what he did. He sat, and shook, and waited.

3

Wonderland didn't turn up, but Geraldine did, and she was in no mood for lunatics. Cal heard her voice in the hall below; heard Brendan telling her that Cal was ill, and didn't want to be disturbed, heard her tell Brendan that she intended to see Cal whether he was sick or not: then she was at the door.

She tried the handle, found the door locked and rapped on it. ‘Cal? It's me. Wake up.'

He feigned Wariness, aided by a tongue now well whisky-sodden.

‘Who is it?' he said.

‘Why's the door locked? It's me. Geraldine.'

‘I'm not feeling too good.'

‘Let me in, Cal.'

He knew better than to argue with her in such a mood. He shambled to the door, and turned the key.

‘You look terrible,' she said, her voice mellowing as sow as she set eyes on him. ‘What's wrong with you?'

‘I'm all right: he protested. ‘Really. 1 just had a fall.'

‘Why didn't you ring me? I was expecting you at the wedding rehearsal last night. Had you forgotten?'

The following Saturday Geraldine's elder sister Teresa wan to marry the love of her life, a good Catholic boy whose fertility could scarcely be in question: has beloved was four months pregnant. Her swelling belly was not being allowed to overshadow proceedings however: the wedding was to be a grand affair. Cal, who'd been courting Geraldine for two years, was a valued guest, given the general expectation that he'd be the next to exchange vows with one of Norman Kellaway's four daughters. Doubtless his missing the rehearsal had been viewed as minor heresy.

‘I did remind you, Cal,' Geraldine said. ‘You know how important it is to me.'

‘I had a bit of trouble; he told her. ‘I fell off a wall: She looked incredulous.

‘What were you doing climbing on a wall?' she said, as though at his age he should be well beyond such indignities.

He told her briefly about the escape of 33, and the chase to Rue Street. It was a bowdlerized account, of course. In it there was no mention of the carpet or what he'd seen there.

‘Did you find the bird?' she asked, when he'd finished recounting the chase.

‘In a manner of speaking,' he told her. In fact, he'd come home to Chariot Street, only to be told by Brendan that 33 had flown back to the loft in the late afternoon, and was now back beside his speckled wife. This he told Geraldine.

‘So you missed the rehearsal looking for a pigeon that came home anyway?' she said.

He nodded. ‘But you know how Dad loves his birds; the Mention of Brendan softened Geraldine further still; she and Cal's father had been fast friends since Cal had first introduced them. ‘She sparkles,' his father had told Cal, ‘hold on to her, because if you don't, somebody else will: Eileen had never been so certain. She'd always been cool with Geraldine, a tact which had only made Brendan's praise more lavish.

The smile she offered now was gently indulgent. Though Cal had been loath to let her in and have her spot his reverie, he was suddenly grateful for her company. He even felt the shaking fade a little.

‘It's stale in here.' she said. ‘You need some fresh air. Why don't you open the window?'

He did as she suggested. When he turned round she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back to the collage of pictures he'd put up there in his youth, and which his parents had never removed. The Wailing Wall, Geraldine called it; it had always upset her, with its parade of movie stars and mushroom clouds, politicians and pigs.

The dress is beautiful,' she said.

He puzzled over the remark a moment, his mind sluggish.

‘Teresa's dress; she prompted.

‘Oh.'

‘Come and sit down, Cal.'

He lingered by the window. The air was balmy, and clean. It reminded him.

‘What's wrong?' she said.

The words were on the tip of his tongue. ‘I saw Wonderland,' he wanted to say. That was it, in sum. The rest - the circumstances, the description - those details were niceties. The three essential words were easy enough, weren't they? I saw Wonderland. And it there was anybody in his life to whom he should say them, it was this woman.

Tell me, Cal,' she said. ‘Are you ill?'

He shook his head.

‘I saw...' he began.

She looked at him with plain puzzlement.

‘What?' she said. ‘What did you sec?'

‘I saw...' he began again, and again faltered. His tongue refused the instruction he gave it; the words simply wouldn't come. He looked away from her face at the Wailing Wall. "The pictures -...' he said finally, ‘... they're an eyesore.'

A strange euphoria swept over him as he sailed so close to telling, then away. The part of him that wanted what he'd seen kept secret had in that moment won the battle, and perhaps even the war. He could not tell her. Not now not ever, it was a great relief to have made up his mind.

I'm Mad Mooney, he thought to himself. It wasn't such a bad idea at that.

‘You're looking better already,' she said. ‘It must be the fresh air.'

4

And what lessons could he learn from the mad poet, now that they were fellow spirits? What would Mad Mooney do, were he in Cal's shoes? He'd play whatever game was necessary, came the answer, and then; when the world turned its back, he'd search, search until he found the place he'd seen, and not care that in doing so he was inviting delirium. He'd find his dream and hold onto it and never let it go.

They talked a little while longer, until Geraldine announced that she had to leave. There was wedding business to do that afternoon.

‘No more pigeon-chasing,' she said to Cal. ‘I want you there on Saturday.'

She put her arms around him.

‘You're too thin,' she said. ‘I'm going to have to feed you up. She expects to be kissed now, the mad poet whispered in his car; oblige the lady. We don't want her to think you've lost interest in copulation, just because you've been half way to Heaven and back. Kiss her, and say something fetching.

The kiss Cal could deliver, though he was afraid the fact that his passion was prompted would show. He needn`t home feared. She returned his fake fervour with the genuine article, her body warm and tight against his.

That's it, said the poet, now find something seductive to say, and send her off happy.

`Here Cal's confidence faltered. He had no skill with sweet-talk, nor ever had. ‘See you Saturday,' was all he could muster. She seemed content with that. She kissed him again, and took her leave.

He watched her from the window, counting her steps until she turned the corner. Then, with his lover out of sight, he went in search of his heart's desire.