Weaveworld

I

TIME’S GONE BY

1

he people of Chariot Street had witnessed some rare scenes in recent times, but they’d re-established the status quo with admirable zeal. It was just before eight in the morning when Cal got off the bus and began the short walk to the Mooney residence, and everywhere along the street the same domestic rituals that he’d witnessed here since his childhood were being played out. Radios announced the morning’s news through open windows and doors: a Parliamentarian had been found dead in his mistress’ arms; bombs had been dropped in the Middle East. Slaughter and scandal, scandal and slaughter. And was the tea too weak this morning, my dear?; and did the children wash behind their ears?

He let himself into the house, turning over yet again the problem of what to tell Brendan. Anything less than the truth might beg more questions than it answered; and yet to tell the whole story… was that even possible? Did the words exist to evoke more than an echo of the sights he’d seen, the feelings he’d felt?

The house was quiet, which was worrying. Brendan had been a dawn riser since his days working on the Docks; even during the worst of recent times he’d been up to greet his grief early.

Cal called his father’s name. There was no response.

He went through to the kitchen. The garden looked like a battlefield. He called again, then went to search upstairs.

His father’s bedroom door was closed. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside, something he’d never known happen before. He knocked lightly.

‘Dad?’ he said. ‘Are you there?’

He waited several seconds, listening closely, then repeated his enquiry. This time from within came a quiet sobbing.

Thank God,’ he breathed. ‘Dad? It’s Cal.’ The sobbing softened. ‘Will you let me in. Dad?’

There was a short interval; then he heard his father’s footsteps as he crossed to the bedroom door. The key was turned; the door was opened a reluctant six inches.

The face on the other side was more shadow than man. Brendan looked neither to have washed nor shaved since the previous day.

‘Oh God … Dad.’

Brendan peered at his son with naked suspicion, ‘Is it really you?’

The comment reminded Cal of how he must look: his face bloodied and bruised.

‘I’m all right. Dad,’ he said, offering a smile. ‘What about you?’

‘Are all the doors closed?’ Brendan wanted to know.

‘The doors? Yes.’

‘And the windows?’

‘Yes.’

Brendan nodded. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘I told you, yes. What’s wrong. Dad?’

‘The rats,’ said Brendan, his eyes scanning the landing behind Cal. ‘I heard them all night. They came up the stairs, they did. Sat at the top of the stairs. I heard them. Size of cats they were. They sat there waiting for me to come out.’

‘Well they’re not here any longer.’

‘Got in through the fence. Off the embankment. Dozens of them.’

‘Why don’t we go downstairs?’ Cal suggested, ‘I can make you some breakfast.’

‘No. I’m not coming down. Not today.’

Then I’ll make something and bring it up, shall I?’

‘If you like,’ said Brendan.

As Cal started down the stairs again, he heard his father lock and bolt the door once more.