Weaveworld

3

The first glimpse Cal had of trouble was through the bottom of his glass, as he upped it to drain the last of Norman’s malt whisky. At the door two of the printers from the Kellaway factory, who were acting as bouncers for the night, were engaged in friendly conversation with a man in a well-cut suit. Laughing, the man glanced into the hall. It was Shadwell.

The jacket was closed and buttoned. There was no need, it seemed, for supernatural seductions; the Salesman was buying his entrance with charm alone. Even as Cal watched he patted one of the men on the shoulder as if they’d been bosom-buddies since childhood, and stepped inside.

Cal didn’t know whether to stay still and hope that the crowd would conceal him, or make a move to escape and so risk drawing the enemy’s attention. As it was he had no choice in the matter, A hand was over his, and at his side stood one of the aunts Geraldine had introduced him to.

‘So tell me,’ she said, apropos of nothing, ‘have you been to America?’

‘No,’ he said, looking away from her powdered face towards the Salesman. He was entering the hall with flawless confidence, bestowing smiles hither and thither. His appearance won admiring eyes on all sides. Somebody extended a hand to be shaken; another asked him what he was drinking. He played the crowd with ease, a smiling word offered to every ear, all the while his eyes ranging back and forth as he sought out his quarry.

As the distance between them narrowed Cal knew he couldn’t long avoid being seen. Claiming his hand from the grip of the aunt he headed off into the thickest pan of the crowd. A hubbub drew his attention to the far end of the hall, where he saw somebody – it looked to be Elroy – being carried in from the garden, his clothes in filthied disarray, his jaw slack. Nobody seemed much bothered by his condition – every gathering had its share of professional drunkards. There was laughter, and some disapproving looks, then a rapid return to jollification.

Cal glanced back over his shoulder. Where was Shadwell? Still close to the door, pressing the flesh like an aspirant politician? No; he’d moved. Cal scanned the room nervously. The noise and the dancing went on unabated, but now the sweating faces seemed a mite too hungry for happiness; the dancers only dancing because it put the world away for a little time. There was a desperation in this jamboree, and Shadwell knew how to exploit it, with his stale bonhomie and that air he pretended of one who’d walked with the great and the good.

Cal itched to get up onto a table and tell the revellers to stop their cavortings; to see for themselves how foolish their revels looked, and how dangerous the shark they’d invited into their midst.

But what would they do, when he’d shouted himself hoarse? Laugh behind their hands, and quietly remind each other that he had a madman’s blood in his veins?

He’d find no allies here. This was Shadwell’s territory. The safest thing would be to keep his head down, and negotiate a route to the door. Then get away, as far as possible as fast as possible.

He acted upon the plan immediately. Thanking God for the lack of light, he began to slip between the dancers, keeping his eyes peeled for the man with the coat of many colours.

There was a shout behind him. He glanced round, and through the milling figures caught sight of Elroy, who was thrashing about like an epileptic, yelling blue murder. Somebody was calling for a doctor.

Cal turned back towards the door, and the shark was suddenly at his side.

‘Calhoun.’ said Shadwell, soft and low. ‘Your father told me I’d find you here.’

Cal didn’t reply to Shadwell’s words, merely pretended he hadn’t heard. The Salesman wouldn’t dare do anything violent in such a crowd, surely, and he was safe from the man’s jacket as long as he kept his eyes off the lining.

‘Where are you going?’ Shadwell said, as Cal moved off. ‘I want a word with you’

Cal kept walking.

‘We can help each other …’

Somebody called Cal’s name, asking him if he knew what was wrong with Elroy. He shook his head, and forged on through the crowd towards the door. His plan was simple. Tell the bouncers to find Geraldine’s father, and have Shadwell thrown out.

‘… tell me where the carpet is,’ the Salesman was saying, ‘and I’ll make sure her sisters never get their hands on you.’ His manner was placatory. ‘I’ve no argument with you,’ he said. ‘I just want some information.’

‘I told you,’ said Cal, knowing even as he spoke that any appeal was a lost cause. ‘I don’t know where the carpet went.’

They were within a dozen yards of the vestibule now, and with every step they took Shadwell’s courtesy decayed further.

‘They’ll drain you dry,’ he warned. ‘Those sisters of hers. And I won’t be able to stop them, not once they’ve got their hands on you. They’re dead, and the dead don’t take discipline.’

‘Dead?’

‘Oh yes. She killed them herself, while the three of them were still in the womb. Strangled them with their own cords.’

True or not, the image was sickening. And more sickening still, the thought of the sisters’ touch. Cal tried to put both from his mind as he advanced, Shadwell still at his side. All pretence to negotiation had vanished; there were only threats now.

‘You’re a dead man. Mooney, if you don’t confess. I won’t lift a finger to help you –’

Cal was within hailing distance of the men.

He shouted across to them. They broke off their drinking, and turned in his direction.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘This man –’ Cal began, looking towards Shadwell.

But the Salesman had gone. In the space of seconds he’d left Cal’s side and melted into the crowd, an exit as skilful as his entrance.

‘Got some trouble?’ the bigger of the two men wanted to know.

Cal glanced back at the man, fumbling for words. There was no use his trying to explain, he decided.

‘No …’ he said, ‘… I’m all right. I just need some air.’

‘Too much to drink?’ said the other man, and stood aside to let Cal step out into the street.

It was chilly after the suffocation of the hall, but that was fine by Cal. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. Then, a familiar voice.

‘Do you want to go home?’

It was Geraldine. She was standing a short way from the door, a coat draped over her shoulders.

‘I’m all right,’ he told her. ‘Where’s your father?’

‘I don’t know. Why do you want him?’

‘There’s somebody in there who shouldn’t be,’ said Cal, crossing to where she stood. To his drunken gaze she seemed more glamorous than he’d ever seen her; eyes shining like dark gems.

‘Why don’t we walk together a little way?’ she said.

‘I have to speak to your father,’ he insisted, but she was already turning from him, laughing lightly. Before he could voice a protest she was away around the corner. He followed. There were a number of lamps not working along the street, and the silhouette he dogged was fitful. But she trailed her laughter still, and he went after it.

‘Where are you going?’ he wanted to know.

She only laughed again.

Above their heads the clouds were moving quickly, stars glimmering between, their fires too feeble to illuminate much below. They caught Cal’s eye for an instant, and when he looked back at Geraldine she was turning to him, making a sound somewhere between a sigh and a word.

The shadows that embraced her were dense, but they unfolded even as he watched, and what they revealed made his gut somersault. Geraldine’s face had dislodged somehow, her features running like heated wax. And now, as the facade fell away, he saw the woman beneath. Saw, and knew: the browless face, the joyless mouth. Who else but Immacolata?

He would have run then, but that he felt the cold muzzle of a gun against his temple, and the Salesman’s voice said:

‘Make a sound and it’s going to hurt.’

He kept his silence.

Shadwell gestured towards the black Mercedes that was parked at the next intersection.

‘Move,’ he said.

Cal had no choice, scarcely believing, even as he walked, that this scene was taking place on a street whose paving cracks he’d counted since he was old enough to know one from two.

He was ushered into the back of the car, separated from his captors by a partition of heavy glass. The door was locked. He was powerless. All he could do was watch the Salesman slide into the driver’s seat, and the woman get in beside.

There was little chance he’d be missed from the party, he knew, and littler chance still that anyone would come looking for him. It would simply be assumed that he’d tired of the festivities and headed off home. He was in the hands of the enemy, and helpless to do anything about it.

What would Mad Mooney do now, he wondered.

The question vexed him only a moment, before the answer came. Taking out the celebratory cigar Norman had given him, he leaned back in the leather seat, and lit up.

Good, said the poet; take what pleasure you can, while there’s still pleasure to be had. And breath to take it with.