Weaveworld

‘I’ve no need to massage the truth,’ he said proudly, ‘It’s quite convincing enough as it is.’

He talked on, of his recent investigations, and what they’d turned up. Britain, it seemed, was alive from end to end with events prodigious and bizarre. Had Cal heard, he enquired, of the rain of deep-sea fish that had fallen on Halifax?; or the village in Wiltshire that boasted its own Borealis?; or of the three-year-old in Blackpool whose grasp of hieroglyphics had been picture-perfect since birth? All true stories, he claimed; all verifiable. And they were the least of it. The island seemed to be ankle-deep in miracles to which most of its inhabitants turned a blind eye.

‘The truth’s in front of our noses,’ said Gluck. ‘If we could only see it. The visitors are here. In England.’

It was an attractive notion – an apocalypse of fishes and wise children, to turn England inside out; and nonsensical as the facts appeared, Gluck’s conviction was powerfully persuasive. But there was something wrong with his thesis. Cal couldn’t work out what – and he certainly wasn’t in any position to argue the point – but his gut told him that somewhere along the road Gluck had taken a wrong turning. What was so unsettling was the process this fabulous litany had begun in his head; a scrabbling for some fact he’d once possessed and now forgotten. Just beyond his fingertips.

‘Of course, there’s been an official cover-up,’ Gluck was saying, ‘here in Spook City.’

‘Cover-up?’

‘Certainly. It wasn’t just houses that disappeared. People went too. Lured here, at least that’s what my information suggests. Moneyed people; people with important friends, who came here and never left. Or at least not of their own accord.’

‘Extraordinary.’

‘Oh, I could tell you tales that would make the disappearance of a plutocrat seem small beer.’ Gluck re- kindled his cigar, which had died each time he’d taken off on some fresh tack. He puffed on it until he was veiled in smoke. ‘But we know so little,’ he said. ‘That’s why I keep searching, keep asking. I would have been on your doorstep a lot earlier, but that things have been so hectic’

‘I don’t think there’s much I can tell you,’ said Cal. ‘That whole period’s sort of vague –’

‘Yes,’ said Gluck. ‘It would be. I’ve had this happen repeatedly. Witnesses simply forgetting. I believe it’s something our friends –’ he pointed the wet end of his cigar skyward, ‘– are able to induce: this forgetfulness. Was there anybody else in the house that day?’

‘My father. I think.’

He couldn’t even be perfectly certain of that.

‘Might I have a word with him?’

‘He’s dead. He died last month.’

‘Oh. My condolences. Was it sudden?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re selling the house then. Leaving Liverpool to its own devices?’

Cal shrugged. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. Gluck peered at him out of the smoke. ‘I just can’t seem to make up my mind about much these days,’ Cal confessed. ‘It’s like I’m living in a dream.’

You never spoke a truer word, said a voice at the back of his head.

‘I understand,’ said Gluck. ‘Truly I do.’

He unbuttoned his jacket, and opened it. Cal’s heartbeat unaccountably quickened, but all the man was doing was fishing in his inside pocket for his visiting card.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Please. Take it.’

A. V. Gluck, the card announced, and below the Birmingham address a phrase, in red ink:

What is now proved was once only imagined.

‘Who’s the quote from?’

‘William Blake,’ said Gluck. “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Would you keep the card? If anything should occur to you; anything … anomalous … I’d like to hear from you.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Cal said. He looked at the card again. ‘What does V. stand for?’ he asked.

‘Virgil,’ Gluck confided. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘everybody should have some little secret, don’t you think?’

2

Cal kept the card, more as a keepsake of the encounter than in the expectation of using it. He’d enjoyed the man’s company, in its off-beat way, but it was probably a performance best enjoyed once only. Twice might stale its eccentric charm.

When Geraldine got back he began to tell her about the visit, then thought better of it, and diverted the conversation to another subject entirely. He knew she’d laugh at his giving the fellow a minute of his attention, and, outlandish as Gluck and his theories were, he didn’t want to hear the man mocked, however gently.

Maybe the man had taken the wrong turning, but at least he’d travelled some extraordinary roads. Though Cal could no longer remember why, he had the suspicion that they had that in common.

Part Seven

The Demagogue

‘All rising to great place is by a winding stair.’

Sir Francis Bacon

Essays

I

THE MESSENGER

1

pring was late that year, the March days murky, the nights frost-bitten. It sometimes seemed winter would never end; that the world would go on like this, grey upon grey, until entropy claimed its little life entirely. The weeks brought bad times for Suzanna and Jerichau. It wasn’t Hobart that caused them: indeed she even got to thinking that a reminder of their jeopardy might usefully shake them from their complacency.

But, while she suffered from lethargy and ennui, Jerichau’s response to these weeks was in its way far more alarming. The pleasure he took in the inconsequentia of the Kingdom, which had been a source of amusement to them both, now took on the quality of an obsession. He lost entirely his capacity for stillness, which had initially drawn her to him. Now he was full of spurious energy, spouting advertising catch- phrases and jingles which he soaked up – Babu that he was – like a sponge, his talk an imitation of the flipness of television detectives and game-show hosts. They argued often, sometimes bitterly; he’d more often than not walk out in the middle of such exchanges, as if anger were not worth his sweat, only to return with some booty – usually drink – which he’d consume in sullen solitude if he couldn’t get Suzanna to join him.

She tried to satisfy his restlessness by keeping them on the move, but it only exacerbated the disease.

Privately she began to despair, as she pictured history repeating itself two generations on, with her cast in Mimi’s role.

And then, not a moment too soon, the weather began to improve, and her spirits started to rise. She even dared entertain the hope that the chase had actually stopped; their pursuers given up and gone home. In a month or so, perhaps, they could with some confidence go in search of a haven to begin the unweaving again.

But then came the glad tidings.