Клайв Баркер – Weaveworld (страница 14)

Not surprisingly the woman and the bear had crossed over, so as to walk on the shadowed side of the street.

3

Twenty-four years was a third of a good span; time enough to form some opinions on how the world worked. Up until mere hours ago, Suzanna would have claimed she’d done just that.

Certainly there were sizeable gaps in her comprehension: mysteries, both inside her head and out, that remained un-illuminated. But that had only made her the more determined not to succumb to any sentiment or self-delusion that would give those mysteries power over her – a zeal that touched both her private and professional lives. In her love-affairs she had always tempered passion with practicality, avoiding the emotional extravagance she’d seen so often become cruelty and bitterness. In her friendships she’d pursued a similar balance: neither too cloying nor too detached. And no less in her craft. The very appeal of making bowls and pots was its pragmatism; the vagaries of art disciplined by the need to create a functional object.

The question she would ask, viewing the most exquisite jug on earth, would be: does it pour? And it was in a sense a quality she sought in every facet of her life.

But here was a problem which defied such simple distinctions; that threw her off-balance; left her sick and bewildered.

First the memories. Then Mimi, more dead than alive but passing dreams through the air.

And now this meeting, with a woman whose glance had death in it, and yet had left her feeling more alive than perhaps she’d ever felt.

It was that last paradox that made her leave the house without finishing her search, slamming the door on whatever dramas it had waiting for her. Instinctively, she made for the river. There, sitting awhile in the sun, she might make some sense of the problem.

There were no ships on the Mersey, but the air was so clear she could see cloud shadows moving over the hills of Clwyd. There was no such clarity within her, however. Only a chaos of feelings, all unsettlingly familiar, as though they’d been inside her for years, biding their time behind the screen of pragmatism she’d established to keep them from sight. Like echoes, waiting on a mountain-face for the shout they were born to answer.

She’d heard that shout today. Or rather, met it, face to face, on the very spot in the narrow hallway where as a six-year-old she’d stood and trembled in fear of the dark. The two confrontations were inextricably linked, though she didn’t know how. All she knew was that she was suddenly alive to a space inside herself where the haste and habit of her adult life had no dominion.

She sensed the passions that drifted in that space only vaguely, as her fingertips might sense fog. But she would come to know them better with time, those passions, and the acts that they’d engender: she was certain of that as she’d been certain of nothing in days. She’d know them – and, God help her – she’d love them as her own.

III

SELLING HEAVEN

r Mooney? Mr Brendan Mooney?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you happen to have a son by the name of Calhoun?’

‘What business is it of yours?’ Brendan wanted to know. Then, before the other could answer, said: ‘Nothing’s happened to him?’

The stranger shook his head, taking hold of Brendan’s hand and pumping it vigorously.

‘You’re a very lucky man, Mr Mooney, if I may make so bold.’

That, Brendan knew, was a lie.

‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Are you selling something?’ He withdrew his hand from the grip of the other man. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want it.’

‘Selling?’ said Shadwell. ‘Perish the thought. I’m giving, Mr Mooney. Your son’s a wise boy. He volunteered your name – and lo and behold, you’ve been selected by computer as the recipient of –’

‘I told you I don’t want it,’ Brendan interrupted, and tried to close the door, but the man already had one foot over the threshold.

‘Please –’ Brendan sighed, ‘– will you just leave me alone? I don’t want your prizes. I don’t want anything.’

‘Well that makes you a very remarkable man,’ the Salesman said, pushing the door wide again. ‘Maybe even unique. There’s really nothing in all the world you want? That’s remarkable.’

Music drifted from the back of the house, a recording of Puccini’s Greatest Hits which Eileen had been given several years ago. She’d scarcely listened to it, but since her death Brendan – who had never stepped inside an opera-house in his life, and was proud of the fact – had become addicted to the Love Duet from Madam Butterfly. If he’d played it once he’d played it a hundred times, and the tears would always come. Now all he wanted to do was get back to the music before it finished. But the Salesman was still pressing his suit.

‘Brendan,’ he said. ‘I may call you Brendan –?’

‘Don’t call me anything.’

The Salesman unbuttoned his jacket.

‘Really, Brendan, we have a great deal to discuss, you and I. Your prize, for one.’

The lining of the jacket scintillated, drawing Brendan’s eye. He’d never in his life seen a fabric its equal.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want?’ the Salesman said. ‘Absolutely sure?’

The Love Duet had reached a new plateau, the voices of Butterfly and Pinkerton urging each other on to fresh confessions of pain. Brendan heard, but his attention was increasingly focused on the jacket. And yes, there was something there that he wanted.

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.