Weaveworld

‘All right, I heard you first time,’ said Cal. ‘Let me just say goodbye to Dad.’

He went next door. Brendan hadn’t moved since Cal had settled him in the chair.

‘Dad … can you hear me?’

Brendan looked up from his sorrows.

‘Haven’t seen a wind like that since the war,’ he said. ‘Out in Malaya. Saw whole houses blown down. Didn’t think to see it here.’

He spoke distractedly, his gaze on the empty wall.

‘The police are in the street,’ said Cal.

‘At least the loft’s still standing, eh,’ Brendan said. ‘A wind like that …’ his voice faded. Then he said: ‘Will they come here? The police?’

‘I would think so, Dad. Are you all right to speak to them? I have to go.’

‘Of course you do,’ Brendan murmured. ‘You go on.’

‘Do you mind if I take the car?’

‘Take it. I can tell them –’ Again, he halted, before picking up his thoughts. ‘Haven’t seen a wind like that since … oh, since the war.’

2

The trio left by the back door, climbing the fence and making their way along the embankment to the footbridge at the end of Chariot Street. From there they could see the size of the crowd that had already gathered from neighbouring streets, eager to view the spectacle.

Part of Cal itched to go down and tell them what he’d seen. To say: the world isn’t just the tea-cup and the pot. I know, because I’ve seen. But he held onto his words, knowing how they’d look at him.

There’d maybe come a time to be proud, to tell his tribe about the terrors and miracles they shared with the world. But this wasn’t it.

VIII

NECESSARY EVILS

he name of the man with the dark suit, whom Cal had seen getting out of the police-car, was Inspector Hobart. He had been in the force for eighteen of his forty-six years, but it was only recently – with the riots that had erupted in the city during the late spring and summer of the previous year – that his star had come into the ascendant.

The origins of those riots were still the subject of both Public Enquiry and private argument, but Hobart had no time for either. It was the Law and how to keep it that obsessed him, and in that year of civil disturbance his obsession had made him the man of the moment.

Not for him the niceties of the sociologist or the civic planner. His sacred task was to preserve the peace, and his methods – which his apologists described as uncompromising – found sympathy with his civic masters. He rose in the ranks within weeks, and behind closed doors he was offered carte blanche to deal with the anarchy that had already cost the city millions.

He was not blind to the politics of this man?uvre. No doubt the higher echelons, for whom he had utter but unspoken contempt, were fearful of the backlash should they wield too strong a whip themselves. No doubt too he would be the first to be sacrificed to the ferocity of public indignation should the techniques he brought to bear fail.

But they did not fail. The elite he formed – men chosen from the Divisions for their sympathy with Hobart’s methods – was quickly successful. While the conventional forces kept the blue line unbroken on the streets, Hobart’s Special Force, known – to those who knew of it at all – as the Fire Brigade, was acting behind the scenes to terrorize any suspected of fuelling the agitation, either by word or deed. Within weeks the riots died down, and James Hobart was suddenly a force to be reckoned with.

There had followed several months of inactivity, and the Brigade languished. It had not escaped Hobart that being the man of the hour was of little consequence once that hour had passed; and through the spring and early summer of this, the following year, that seemed to be the case.

Until now. Today he dared hope he still had a fight on his hands. There’d been chaos, and here, in front of him, the gratifying evidence.

‘What’s the situation?’

His right-hand man, Richardson, shook his head.

‘There’s talk of some kind of whirlwind,’ he said.

‘Whirlwind?’ Hobart indulged a smile at the absurdity of this. When he smiled his lips disappeared, and his eyes became slits. ‘No felons?’

‘Not that we’ve had reported. Apparently it was just this wind – ’

Hobart stared at the spectacle of destruction in front of him.

‘This is England,’ he said. ‘We don’t have whirlwinds.’

‘Well something did this …’

‘Somebody, Bryn. Anarchists. They’re like rats, these people. You find a poison that does the job, and they learn how to get fat on it.’ He paused. ‘You know, I think it’s going to begin again.’

As he spoke, another of his officers – one of the blood-spattered heroes of the previous year’s confrontations, a man called Fryer – approached.

‘Sir. We’ve got reports of suspects seen crossing the bridge.’

‘Get after them’ said Hobart. ‘Let’s have some arrests. And Bryn, you talk to these people. I want testimonies from everyone in the street.’

The two officers went about their business, leaving Hobart to ponder the problem. There was no doubt in his mind that events here were of human making. It might not be the same individuals whose heads he’d broken last year, but it was essentially the same animal. In his years of service he’d confronted that beast in its many guises, and it seemed to him that it grew more devious and damnable every time he stared into its maw.

But the enemy was a constant, whether it concealed itself behind fire, flood or whirlwind. He took strength from that fact. The battlefield might be new, but the war was old. It was the struggle between the Law, of which he was the representative, and the rot of disorder in the human heart. He would let no whirlwind blind him to that fact.

Sometimes, of course, the war required that he be cruel, but what cause worth fighting for did not require cruelty of its champions once in a while? He had never shirked that responsibility and he would not shirk now.

Let the beast come again, in whatever fancy dress it chose. He would be ready.

IX

ON THE MIGHT OF PRINCES

he Incantatrix did not look towards Shadwell when he entered; indeed it seemed she’d not moved a muscle since the night before. The hotel room was stale with her breath and sweat. Shadwell inhaled deeply.

‘My poor libertine,’ she murmured. ‘He’s destroyed.’

‘How’s that possible?’ Shadwell replied. The image of the creature was still lodged in his head, in all its appalling magnificence. How could a thing so powerful be killed, especially as it had already been dead?

‘It was the Cuckoos,’ she said.

‘Mooney, or the girl?’

‘Mooney.’

‘And the carpet crawlers?’

‘All survived but one,’ said Immacolata. ‘Am I right, sister?’