Weaveworld

3

Boyce had seen the expression on the suspect’s face change seconds before the cell door was blown open, and it had almost broken his heart to see a smile so lavish appear on features he’d sweated to terrorize. He was about to beat the smile to Kingdom Come when he heard Laverick, who’d been enjoying a mid-session cigarette in the far corner of the room, say: ‘Jesus Christ’, and the next moment –

What had happened in that next moment?

First the door had rattled as if an earthquake was waiting on the other side; then Laverick had dropped his cigarette and stood up, and Boyce, suddenly feeling sick as a dog, had reached out to take the suspect hostage against whatever was beating on the door. He was too late. The door was flung wide – brightness flooded in – and Boyce felt his body weaken to the point of near collapse. An instant later something took hold of him, and turned him round and round on his heels. He was helpless in its embrace. All he could do was cry out as the cool force made gushing entry into him through every hole in his body. Then, as suddenly as he’d been snatched, he was let go. He hit the cell floor just as a woman, who seemed both naked and dressed to him, stepped through the door. Laverick had seen her too, and was shouting something, which the rushing in Boyce’s ears – as if his skull was being rinsed in a river – drowned out. The woman terrified him as he’d only been terrified in dreams. His mind struggled to recall a ritual of protection against such terrors, one he’d known before his own name. He had to be quick, he knew. His mind was close to being washed away.

Suzanna’s gaze lingered on the torturers for only an instant – it was Jerichau that concerned her. His face was raw, and puffed up with repeated beatings, but smiling at the sight of his rescuer.

‘Quickly,’ she said, extending a hand to him.

He stood up, but he wouldn’t approach her. He’s afraid too, she thought. Or if not afraid, at least respectful.

‘We must go –’

He nodded. She stepped out into the corridor again, trusting that he’d follow. In the scant minutes since the menstruum had flowed in her she’d begun to exercise some control over it, like a bride learning to trail and gather the length of her train. Now, when she left the cell, she mentally called the wash of energy after her, and it came to her.

She was glad of its obedience, for as she began along the corridor Hobart appeared at the far end. Her confidence momentarily faltered, but the sight of her – or whatever he saw in her place – was enough to make him stop in his tracks. He seemed to doubt his eyes, for he shook his head violently. Gaining confidence, she began to advance towards him. The lights were swinging wildly above her head. The concrete walls creaked when she laid her fingers on them, as though with a little effort she might crack them wide. The thought of such a thing began to make her laugh. The sound of her laughter was too much for Hobart. He retreated and disappeared up the stairs.

No further challenge was offered as they made their escape. They climbed the stairs, then crossed the abruptly deserted office. Her very presence threw mounds of paperwork into the air, that spiralled down around her like vast confetti. (I’m married to myself, her mind announced.) Then she was stepping through the doors into the evening beyond, Jerichau a respectful distance behind. There were no thanks forthcoming. He merely said:

‘You can find the carpet.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Let the menstruum show you,’ he told her.

The reply didn’t make much sense to her, until he extended his hand, palm up:

‘I never saw the menstruum so strong in anyone,’ he said. ‘You can find the Fugue. It and I –’

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; she understood. He and the carpet were made of the same stuff; the Weave was the woven, and vice versa. She seized hold of his hand. In the building behind them alarm bells had begun to ring, but she knew they would not come after her: not yet.

Jerichau’s face was a knot of anguish. Her touch was not kind to him. But in her head lines of force spiralled and converged. Images appeared: a house, a room. And yes, the carpet, lying in splendour before hungry eyes. The lines twisted; other images fought for her attention. Was that blood spilled so copiously on the floor?; and Cal’s heel slipping in it?

She let go of Jerichau’s hand. He made a fist of it.

‘Well?’ he said.

Before she could reply a patrol car squealed into the yard. The driver’s partner, alerted by the alarm, was already stepping from the car, demanding that the escapees halt. He began towards them, but the menstruum threw a ghost-wave towards him which caught him up and washed him out into the street. The driver threw himself out of the car and fled towards the safety of bricks and mortar, leaving the vehicle free for the taking.

‘The book,’ said Suzanna as she slipped into the driver’s seat. ‘Hobart’s still got my book.’

‘We’ve no time to go back,’ said Jerichau.

Easily said. It hurt to think of leaving Mimi’s gift in the hands of Hobart. But in the time it would take her to find him and claim it back, the carpet might be lost. She had no choice; she’d have to leave it in his possession.

Odd as it seemed, she knew there were few hands in which it was more secure.