Weaveworld

II

TELL ME NO LIES

he room they’d put Suzanna in was cold and charmless enough, but it could have taken lessons from the man who sat opposite her. He handled her with an ironic courtesy that never quite concealed the hammer head beneath. Not once during the hour of their interview had he raised his voice above the conversational, nor shown the least impatience at repeating the same enquiries.

‘What’s the name of your organization?’

‘I have none,’ she’d told him for the hundredth time.

‘You’re in very serious trouble,’ he said. ‘Do you understand that?’

‘I demand to see a solicitor.’

‘There’ll be no solicitor.’

‘I have rights,’ she protested.

‘You forfeited your rights on Lord Street,’ he said. ‘Now. The name of your confederates.’

‘I don’t have any confederates, damn you.’

She told herself to be calm, but the adrenalin kept pumping. He knew it, too. He didn’t take his lizard eyes off her for an instant. Just kept watching, and asking the same old questions, winding her up until she was ready to scream.

‘And the nigger –’ he said. ‘He’s in the same organization.’

‘No. No, he doesn’t know anything.’

‘So you admit the organization exists.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You just admitted as much.’

‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’

Again, the sour civility: ‘Then please … speak for yourself.’

‘I’ve nothing to say.’

‘We’ve witnesses that’ll testify that you and the nigger –’

‘Don’t keep calling him that.’

‘That you and the nigger were at the centre of the riot. Who supplies your chemical weapons?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘That’s what you are. You’re ridiculous.’

She could feel herself flushing, and tears threatened. Damn it, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

He must have sensed her determination, because he gave up that line of questioning and tried another.

‘Tell me about the code,’ he said.

This perplexed her utterly. ‘What code?’

He took Mimi’s book from the pocket of his jacket, and laid it on the table between them, his wide, pale hand placed proprietorially across it.

‘What does this mean?’ he said.

‘It’s a book …’

‘Don’t take me for a fool.’

‘I don’t,’ she thought. ‘You’re dangerous, and you make me afraid.’

But she replied: ‘Really, it’s just a book of faery-tales.’

He opened it, flicking through the pages.

‘You read German?’

‘A little. The book was a present. From my grandmother.’

He paused here and here, to glance at the illustrations. He lingered over one – a dragon, its coils gleaming in a midnight forest – before passing on.

‘You realize, I hope, that the more you lie to me the worse things will get for you.’

She didn’t grace the threat with a reply.

‘I’m going to take your little book apart –’ he said.

‘Please don’t –’

She knew he’d read her concern as confirmation of her guilt, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘Page by page’ he said. ‘Word by word if I have to.’

‘There’s nothing in it,’ she insisted. ‘It’s just a book. And it’s mine.’

‘It’s evidence,’ he corrected her. ‘It means something.’

‘… faery-tales …’

‘I want to know what.’

She hung her head, so as not to let him enjoy her pain.

He stood up.

‘Wait for me, would you?’ he said, as if she had any choice in the matter. ‘I’m going to have a word with your nigger friend. Two of this city’s finest have been keeping him company –’ he paused to let the sub-text sink in, ‘– I’m sure by now he’ll be ready to tell me the whys and the wherefores. I’ll be back in a little while.’

She put her hand over her mouth to stop herself begging him to believe her. It would do no good.

He rapped on the door. It was unbolted; he stepped out into the corridor. The door was locked behind him.

She sat at the table for several minutes and tried to make sense of the feeling that seemed to narrow her wind-pipe and her vision, leaving her breathless, and blind to everything but the memory of his eyes. Never in her life had she felt anything quite like it.

It took a little time before she realized that it was hate.