Weaveworld

2

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I can’t on the ‘phone.’

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

‘Yes. I’ve still got your card.’

‘Then come. I’d enjoy the company.’

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

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

‘I’ll be here.’

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