Weaveworld

2

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: I 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 –’

‘I’ll 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.