Weaveworld

3

Though Cal held onto Shadwell with the tenacity of a terrier, the Salesman’s superior weight rapidly gained the day. Cal was thrown down amongst the bricks, and Shadwell closed in. No quarter was given. Shadwell began to kick him, not once but a dozen times.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he yelled.

The kicks kept coming, timed to prevent Cal getting up.

‘I’m going to break every bone in your fucking body,’ Shadwell promised. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’

He might have done it too, but that somebody said:

‘You –’

Shadwell’s assault stopped momentarily, and Cal looked past the Salesman’s legs to the man in dark glasses who was approaching. It was the policeman from Chariot Street.

Shadwell turned on the man.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

‘Inspector Hobart,’ came the reply.

Cal could imagine the wave of guilelessness that would now be breaking over Shadwell’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice:

‘Inspector. Of course. Of course.’

‘And you?’ Hobart returned. ‘Who are you?’

Cal didn’t hear the rest of the exchange. He was occupied with the business of making his bruised body crawl away through the rubble, hoping the same good fortune that had let him escape alive had speeded Suzanna on her way.

Where is she?’

Where’s who?’

‘The woman who was here,’ said Hobart. He took off his glasses, the better to see this suspect in the half-light. The man has dangerous eyes, thought Shadwell. He has the eyes of a rabid fox. And he wants Suzanna too. How interesting.

‘Her name is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Hobart.

‘Ah,’ said Shadwell.

‘You know her?’

‘Indeed I do. She’s a thief.’

‘She’s a good deal worse than that.’

What’s worse than a thief? thought Shadwell. But said: ‘Is that so?’

‘She’s wanted for questioning on charges of terrorism.’

‘And you’re here to arrest her?’

‘I am.’

‘Good man,’ said Shadwell. What better? he thought: an upstanding, fine-principled, Law-loving despot. Who could ask for a better ally in such troubled times?

‘I have some evidence,’ he said, ‘that may be of value to you. But strictly for your eyes only.’

On Hobart’s instruction Richardson retired a little way.

‘I’m in no mood for games,’ Hobart warned.

‘Believe me,’ said Shadwell, ‘upon my mother’s eyes: this is no game.’

He opened his jacket. The Inspector’s fretful glance went immediately to the lining. He’s hungry, thought Shadwell; he’s so hungry. But what for? That would be interesting to see. What would friend Hobart desire most in all the wide world?

‘Maybe … you see something there that catches your eye?’

Hobart smiled; nodded.

‘You do? Then take it, please. It’s yours.’

The Inspector reached towards the jacket.

‘Go on,’ Shadwell encouraged him. He’d never seen such a look on any human face: such a wilderness of innocent malice.

A light ignited within the jacket, and Hobart’s eyes suddenly grew wilder still. Then he was drawing his hand out of the lining, and Shadwell almost let out a yelp of surprise as he shared the lunatic’s vision. In the palm of the man’s hand a livid fire was burning, its flames yellow and white. They leapt a foot high, eager for something to consume, their brilliance echoed in Hobart’s eyes.

‘Oh yes,’ said Hobart. ‘Give me fire –’

‘It’s yours, my friend.’

‘– and I’ll burn them away.’

Shadwell smiled.

‘You and I together,’ he proposed.

Thus began a marriage made in Hell.