The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

appeared to proceed.

It seemed quite ordinary, at first, this flagstone, but under scrutiny Titus could see that the thin fissure that surrounded it was sharper and deeper than was the case with the adjacent stones. The candlelight showed up what the daylight would have hidden.

Again the knocking started and Titus, taking the knuckle of flint from his pocket, waited for the next lull. Then, with a trembling hand, he struck the stone slab twice.

For a moment there was no reply and then the answer came – ‘One … two …’

It was a brisk ‘one – two’, quite unlike the tentative tapping which had preceded it.

It was as though, whoever or whatever stood or lay or crawled beneath the flagstone, the mood of the enigma had changed. The ‘being’, whatever it was, had gained in confidence.

What happened next was stranger and more fearful. Something more startling than the tapping had taken its place. This time it was the eyes that were assailed. What did they see that made his whole body shake? Peering at the candle-lit flagstone below him, he saw it move.

Titus jumped back from the oscillating stone and, lifting his candle high in the air, he looked about him wildly for some kind of weapon. His eyes returned to the stone which was now an inch above the ground.

From where Titus stood in the centre of the cell he could not see that the stone was supported by a pair of hands that trembled with its weight. All he saw was a part of the floor rising up with a kind of slow purpose.

Woken out of his sleep to find himself in a prison – and then to hear a knocking in the darkness – and then to be faced with something phantasmagoric – a stone, apparently alive, raising itself in secret in order to survey the supine vaults – all this and the depth of his homesickness – what could all this lead to but a lightness in the head? But this lightness, though it all but brought a kind of mad laughter in its train, did not prevent him seeing in the half-painted chair a possible weapon. Grabbing it, with his eyes fixed upon the flagstone, he wrenched the chair to pieces, this way and that, until he had pulled free from the skeleton one of its front legs. With this in his hand he began to laugh silently as he crept towards his enemy, the stone.

But as he crept forward he saw before the flagstone, which was by now five inches up in the air, two thick grey wrists.

They were trembling with the weight of the stone slab, and as Titus watched, his eyes wide with conjecture, he saw the thick slab begin to tilt and edge itself over the adjacent stone until, by degrees, the whole weight was transferred and there was a square hole in the floor.

The thick grey hands had withdrawn, taking their fingers with them – but a moment later something arose to take their place. It was the head of a man.

THIRTY- SIX

Little did he know – this riser-out-of-flagstones – that his head was that of a batter’d god – nor that with such a visage, he was, when he spoke, undermining his own grandeur, for no voice could be tremendous enough for such a face.

‘Be not startled,’ he whined, and his accents were as soft as dough. ‘All is well; all is lovely; all is as it should be. Accept me. That is all I ask you. Accept me. Old Crime they call me. They will have their little jokes. Dear boys, they are. Ha ha! That I have come to you through a hole in the floor is nothing. Put down that chair leg, friend.’

‘What do you want?’ said Titus.

‘Listen to him,’ replied the soft voice. ‘“What do you want?” he says. I want nothing, dear child. Nothing but friendship. Sweet friendship. That is why I have come to see you. To initiate you. One must help the helpless, mustn’t one? And pour out balm, you know: and bathe all kinds of bruises.’

‘I wish to hell you had left me alone,’ said Titus savagely. ‘You can keep your balm.’

‘Now is that nice?’ said Old Crime. ‘Is that kind? But I understand. You are not used to it: are you? It takes some time to love the Honeycomb.’

Titus stared at the leonine head.

The voice had robbed it of all grandeur, and he placed the chair leg on the table within reach.

‘The Honeycomb? What’s that?’ said Titus at last. The man had been staring at him intently.

‘It is the name we give, dear boy, to what some would call a prison. But we know better. To us it is a world within a world – and I should know, shouldn’t I? I’ve been here all my life – or nearly all. For the first few years I lived in luxury. There were tiger-skins on the scented floorboards of our houses: and golden cutlery and golden plates. Money was like the sands of the sea. For I come from a great line. You have probably heard of us. We are the oldest family in the world – we are the originals.’ He edged forward, out of the hole.

‘Do you think that because I am here, in the Honeycomb, I am missing anything? Do you think I am jealous of my family? Do you think I miss the golden plates and the tiger-skins? No! Nor the reflections in the polished floor. I have found my luxury here. This is my joy. To be a prisoner in the Honeycomb. So, my dear child, be not startled. I came to tell you there’s a friend below you. You can always tap to me. Tap out your thoughts. Tap out your joys and sorrows. Tap out your love. We will grow old together.’

Titus turned his face sharply. What did he mean, this vile, unhealthy creature.

‘Leave me alone,’ cried Titus, ‘– leave me alone!’

The man from the cell below stared at Titus. Then he began to tremble.

‘This used to be my cell,’ he said. ‘Years and years ago. I was a fire-raiser. “Arson” they called it. I did so love a fire. The flames make up for everything.

‘Bring on the rats and mice! Bring on my skinning-knife. Bring on the New Boys.’

He moved a step towards Titus who, in his turn, moved a little nearer to the chair-leg weapon.

‘This is a good cell. I had it once,’ whined Old Crime. ‘I made something out of it, I can tell you. I learned the nature of it. I was sad to leave it. This window is the finest in the prison. But who cares about it now? Where are the frescoes gone? My yellow frescoes. Drawings, you understand. Drawings of fairies. Now they have been covered up and nothing is left of all my work. Not a trace.’