Weaveworld

Shadwell watched the man’s eyes and saw the flame of desire ignited. It never failed.

‘You do see something, Mr Mooney.’

‘Yes,’ Brendan admitted softly. He saw, and the joy he felt at what he saw made his heavy heart light.

Eileen had said to him once (when they were young, and mortality was just another way to express their devotion to each other): ‘– if I die first, Brendan, I’ll find some way to tell you what Heaven’s like. I swear I will.’ He’d hushed her with kisses then, and said that if she were to die he would die too, of a broken heart.

But he hadn’t died, had he? He’d lived three long, empty months, and more than once in that time he’d remembered her frivolous promise. And now, just as he felt despair would undo him utterly, here on his doorstep was this celestial messenger. An odd choice, perhaps, to appear in the shape of a salesman, but no doubt the Seraphim had their reasons.

‘Do you want what you see, Brendan?’ the visitor asked.

‘Who are you?’ Brendan breathed, awe-struck.

‘My name’s Shadwell.’

‘And you brought this for me?’

‘Of course. But if you accept it, Brendan, you must understand there’ll be a small charge for the service.’

Brendan didn’t take his eyes off the prize the jacket housed. ‘Whatever you say,’ he replied.

‘We may ask for your help, for instance, which you’d be obliged to furnish.’

‘Do angels need help?’

‘Once in a while.’

‘Then of course,’ said Brendan. ‘I’d be honoured.’

‘Good.’ The Salesman smiled. ‘Then please –’ he opened the jacket a little wider, ‘– help yourself.’

Brendan knew how the letter from Eileen would smell and feel long before he had it in his hands. It did not disappoint him. It was warm, as he’d expected, and the scent of flowers lingered about it. She’d written it in a garden, no doubt; in the paradise garden.

‘So, Mr Mooney. We have a deal, do we?’

The Love Duet had ended; the house behind Brendan was silent. He held the letter close to his chest, still fearful that this was all a dream, and he’d wake to find himself empty-handed.

‘Whatever you want,’ he said, desperate that this salvation not be snatched from him.

‘Sweetness and light,’ came the smiling reply. ‘That’s all a wise man ever wants, isn’t it? Sweetness and light.’

Brendan was only half-listening. He ran his fingers back and forth over the letter. His name was on the front, in Eileen’s cautious hand.

‘So tell me, Mr Mooney –’ the Seraphim said, ‘about Cal.’

‘Cal?’

‘Can you tell me where I can find him?’

‘He’s at a wedding.’

‘A wedding. Ah. Could you perhaps furnish me with address?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘We’ve got a little something for Cal too. Lucky man.’

IV

NUPTIALS

1

eraldine had spent many long hours giving Cal a working knowledge of her family tree, so that come Teresa’s wedding he’d know who was who. It was a difficult business. The Kellaway family was heroically fecund, and Cal had a poor memory for names, so it wasn’t surprising that many of the hundred and thirty guests who packed the reception hall this balmy Saturday evening were unknown to him. He didn’t much mind. He felt safe amongst such numbers, even if he didn’t know who they were; and the drink, which had flowed freely since four in the afternoon, further allayed his anxieties. He didn’t even object when Geraldine presented him before a parade of admiring aunts and uncles, every one of whom asked him when he was going to make an honest woman of her. He played the game; smiled; charmed; did his best to seem sane.

Not that a little lunacy would have been noticeable in such a heady atmosphere. Norman Kellaway’s ambition for his daughter’s wedding day seemed to have been upped a notch for every inch her waist-line had swelled. The ceremony had been grand, but necessarily decorous; the reception, however, was a triumph of excess over good taste. The hall had been decorated from floor to ceiling with streamers and paper lanterns; ropes of coloured lights were looped along the walls and in the trees out at the back of the hall. The bar was supplied with beer, spirits and liqueurs sufficient to intoxicate a modest army; food was in endless supply, carried to the tables of those content to sit and gorge by a dozen harassed waitresses.

Even with all the doors and windows open, the hall soon grew hot as Hell, the heat in part generated by those guests who’d thrown inhibitions to the wind and were dancing to a deafening mixture of country and western and rock and roll, the latter bringing comical exhibitions from several of the older guests, applauded ferociously from all sides.

At the edge of the crowd, lingering by the door that led out behind the hall, the groom’s younger brother, accompanied by two young bucks who’d both at some point courted Teresa, and a fourth youth whose presence was only countenanced because he had cigarettes, stood in a litter of beer cans and surveyed the talent available. The pickings were poor; those few girls who were of beddable age were either spoken for or judged so unattractive that any approach would have been evidence of desperation.

Only Elroy. Teresa’s penultimate boy-friend, could lay claim to any hint of success tonight. Since the ceremony he’d had his eyes on one of the bridesmaids, whose name he’d yet to establish but who’d twice chanced to be at the bar while he was there: a significant statistic. Now he leaned against the door and watched the object of his lust across the smoky room.

The lights had been dimmed inside the hall, and the mood of the dancing had changed from cavortings to slow, smoochy embraces.

This was the moment, he judged, to make his approach. He’d invite the woman onto the dance floor, then, after a song or two, take her out for a breath of fresh air. Several couples had already retired to the privacy of the bushes, there to do what weddings were made to celebrate. Beneath the pretty vows and the flowers they were here in the name of fucking, and he was damned if he was going to be left out.

He’d caught sight of Cal chatting with the girl earlier on; it’d be simplest, he thought, to have Cal to introduce them. He pressed through the crush of dancers to where Cal was standing.

‘How you doin’, mate?’

Cal looked at Elroy blearily. The face before him was flushed with alcohol.

‘I’m doing fine.’

‘Didn’t much like the ceremony,’ Elroy said. ‘I think I’m allergic to churches. Do us a favour, will yer?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m in lust.’

‘Who with?’

‘One of the bridesmaids. She was over by the bar. Long blonde hair.’

‘You mean Loretta?’ Cal said. ‘She’s a cousin of Geraldine’s.’

It was odd, but the drunker he got the more of his lessons on the Kellaway family he remembered.

‘She’s a fucking cracker. And she’s been giving me the eye all night.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I was wondering … will you introduce us?’

Cal looked at Elroy’s panting eyes. ‘I think you’re too late,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘She went outside –’

Before Elroy could voice his irritation Cal felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Norman, the father of