Weaveworld

3

Her visit was not the last of the day; several people called to see that all was well. There was clearly much gossip in the street about the Mooney household. Perhaps some bright spark had realized that it had been the centre of the previous day’s drama.

Every time there was a knock on the door, Cal expected to see Shadwell on the step. But apparently the Salesman had more urgent concerns than finishing the job he’d begun in the ruins of Shearman’s house. Or perhaps he was simply waiting for more propitious stars.

Then, just after noon, while Cal was out at the loft feeding the birds, the telephone rang.

He raced inside and snatched it up. Even before she spoke Cal knew it was Suzanna.

‘Where are you?’

She was breathless, and agitated.

‘We have to get out of the city, Cal. They’re after us.’

‘Shadwell?’

‘Not just Shadwell. The police.’

‘Have you got the carpet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then tell me where you are. I’ll come and –’

‘I can’t. Not on the ‘phone.’

‘It’s not tapped, for God’s sake.’

‘Any bets?’

‘I have to see you,’ he said, somewhere between a request and a demand.

‘Yes …’ she replied, her voice softening. ‘Yes, of course …’

‘How?’

There was a long silence. Then she said: ‘Where you made your confession.’

‘What?’

‘You remember.’

He thought about it. What confession had he ever made to her? Oh yes: I love you. How could he have forgotten that?

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Yes. When?’

‘An hour.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘We don’t have much time, Cal.’

He was going to tell her he knew that, but the line was already dead.

The ache in his bruised bones improved miraculously after the conversation; his step was light as he went upstairs to check on Brendan.

‘I have to go out for a while, Dad.’

‘Have you locked all the doors?’ his father asked.

‘Yes, the house is locked and bolted. Nothing can get in. Is there anything else you need?’

Brendan took a moment to consider the question.

‘I’d like some whisky,’ he said finally.

‘Do we have any?’

‘In the book-case,’ said the old man. ‘Behind the Dickens.’

‘I’ll fetch it for you.’

He was sliding the bottle from its hiding place when the door-bell rang again. He was of half a mind not to answer it, but the visitor insisted.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he called upstairs; then opened the door.

The man in the dark glasses said:

‘Calhoun Mooney?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Inspector Hobart; this is Officer Richardson. We’re here to ask you some questions.’

‘Right now?’ said Cal. ‘I’m just about to go out.’

‘Urgent business?’ said Hobart.

Wiser to say no, Cal reasoned.

‘Not exactly,’ he said.

‘Then you won’t mind us taking up some time,’ said Hobart, and the two of them were inside the house in seconds.

‘Close the door,’ Hobart instructed his colleague. ‘You look flustered, Mooney. Have you got something to hide?’

‘Why should …? No.’

‘We’re in possession of information to the contrary.’

From above, Brendan called for his whisky.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s my father,’ said Cal. ‘He wanted a drink.’

Richardson plucked the bottle from Cal’s hand and crossed to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Don’t go up,’ said Cal. ‘You’ll frighten him.’

‘Nervous family,’ Richardson remarked.

‘He’s not been well,’ said Cal.

‘My men are like lambs,’ said Hobart. ‘As long as you’re within the law.’

Again, Brendan’s voice drifted down:

‘Cal? Who is it?’

‘Just someone who wants a word with me, Dad,’ Cal said.

There was another answer in his throat, though. One which he swallowed unsaid. A truer answer.

It’s the rats. Dad. They got in after all.