2
‘We should have a holiday.’ Geraldine suggested a week after the funeral. ‘You haven’t been sleeping well.’
He was sitting at the dining-room window, watching the garden.
‘We need to do some work on the house,’ he said. ‘It’s depressing me.’
‘We can always sell it,’ she replied.
It was a simple solution, and one his torpid mind hadn’t conceived of. That’s a bloody good idea,’ he said. ‘Find somewhere without a railway at the bottom of the garden.’
They started searching for another house immediately, before the better weather inflated prices. Geraldine was in her element, leading him round the properties with a seamless outpouring of observations and ideas. They found a modest terraced house in Wavertree which they both liked, and put an offer in for it, which was accepted. But the Chariot Street house proved more difficult to move. Two purchasers came to the brink of signing contracts, then withdrew. Even Geraldine’s high spirits lost buoyancy as the weeks drew on.
They lost the Wavertree house at the beginning of March, and were obliged to begin the search over again. But their enthusiasm was much depleted, and they found nothing they liked.
And still, in dreams, the birds spoke. And still he couldn’t interpret their wisdom.
VII
TALES OF SPOOK CITY
1
ive weeks after Brendan’s remains had been scattered on the Lawn of Remembrance, Cal opened the door to a man with a wry, ruddy face, sparse hair brushed ear to ear to shelter his pate, and the stub of a hefty cigar between his fingers.
‘Mr Mooney?’ he said, and without waiting for confirmation, went on: ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Gluck.’ Transferring his cigar from right to left he gripped Cal’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Anthony Gluck,’ he said. The man’s face was vaguely familiar; from where, Cal wracked his brain to remember. ‘I wonder,’ Gluck said, ‘if I may have a word with you?’
‘I vote Labour,’ said Cal.
‘I’m not canvassing. I’m interested in the house.’
‘Oh,’ said Cal, beaming. Then come on in,’ and he led Gluck through into the dining-room. The man was at the window in an instant, peering into the garden.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So this is it.’
‘It’s chaos at the moment,’ said Cal with faint apology.
‘You left it untouched?’ said Gluck.
‘Untouched?’
‘Since the events in Chariot Street.’
‘Do you really want to buy the house?’ said Cal.
‘You said you were interested –’
‘So I am. But not to buy. No, I’m interested in the place because it was the centre of the disturbances last August. Am I right?’
Cal had only a patchwork memory of the events of that day. Certainly he remembered the freak whirlwind that had done so much damage in Chariot Street. He remembered the interview with Hobart quite clearly too; and how it had prevented his meeting with Suzanna. But there was much else – the Rake, the death of Lilia, indeed everything that sprang from the matter of the Fugue – that his mind had eclipsed.
Gluck’s enthusiasm intrigued him however.
‘That was no natural event,’ he said. ‘Not by a long chalk. It was a perfect example of what we in the business call anomalous phenomena.’
‘Business?’
‘You know what some people are calling Liverpool these days?’
‘No.’
‘Spook City.’
‘Spook City?’
‘And with good reason, believe me.’
‘What did you mean when you said
‘In essence it’s very simple. I document events that defy explanation; events that fall outside the comprehension of the scientific community, which people therefore choose
‘This has always been a windy city,’ Cal pointed out.
‘Believe me,’ said Gluck, ‘there was more to what happened here last summer than a high wind. There was a house on the other side of the river simply reduced to rubble overnight. There were mass hallucinations that took place in broad daylight. There were lights in the sky – brilliant lights – witnessed by hundreds of people. All that and more happened in the vicinity of this city, over a two or three day time period. Does that sound like coincidence to you?’
‘No. If you’re sure it all –’
‘All happened? Oh, it happened Mr Mooney. I’ve been collecting this kind of material for twenty years and more, collecting and collating it, and there are patterns in these phenomena.’
‘They don’t just happen here, then?’
‘Good God, no. I get reports sent to me from all over Europe. After a while, you begin to see some kind of picture emerge.’
As Gluck spoke Cal remembered where he’d seen the man before. On a television programme, talking – if he remembered rightly – about governmental silence on visits from alien ambassadors.
‘What happened in Chariot Street,’ he was saying, ‘and all over this city, is part of a pattern which is perfectly apparent to those of us who study these things.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means we’re watched, Mr Mooney. We’re scrutinized the live-long day.’
‘Who by?’
‘Creatures from another world, with a technology which beggars our own. I’ve only seen fragments of their artifacts, left behind by careless voyagers. But they’re enough to prove we’re less to them than household pets.’
‘Really?’
‘I recognize that look, Mr Mooney,’ said Gluck, without irritation. ‘You’re humouring me. But I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. Especially in this past year. Either they’re getting more careless, or they simply don’t mind if we’re wise to them any longer.’
‘Which means what?’
‘That their plans for us are entering some final phase. That their installations on our planet are in place, and we’ll be defeated before we begin.’
‘They mean to invade us?’
‘You may scoff – ’
‘I’m not scoffing. Really I’m not. I can’t say it’s easy to believe, but …’ He thought, for the first time in many months, of Mad Mooney. ‘… I’m interested to hear what you have to say.’
‘Well,’ said Gluck, his fierce expression mellowing. That makes a refreshing change. I’m usually thought of as comic relief. But let me tell you: I’m scrupulous in my researches.’
‘I believe it.’
