He named the warehouse.
‘They only went for a carpet –’ Brendan said.
The receiver clicked.
‘Are you still there?’ he said.
But the divine messenger was probably already winging his way.
1
Standing at the corner of Jamaica Street, staring across at the dereliction, Cal wondered if the late Mr Gilchrist would have been proud to have his name emblazoned across such a decayed establishment. Business could not flourish here, unless they were the kind of dealings best done out of the public eye.
The opening times of the warehouse were displayed on a weather-beaten board, where the cinema had once announced its current fare. Sundays, it was open between nine-thirty and twelve. It was now one-fifteen. The double-doors were closed and bolted, and a pair of huge ironwork gates, a grotesque addition to the facade, padlocked in front of the doors.
‘What are your house-breaking skills like?’ Cal asked Suzanna.
‘Under-developed,’ she replied. ‘But I’m a fast learner.’
They crossed Jamaica Street for a closer inspection. There was little need to pretend innocence; there had been no pedestrians on the street since they’d arrived, and traffic was minimal.
‘There must be some way in,’ said Suzanna. ‘You head round the far side. I’ll go this way.’
‘Right. Meet you at the back.’
They parted. Whereas Cal’s route had taken him into shadow, Suzanna’s left her in bright sunlight. Oddly, she found herself longing for some clouds. The heat was making her blood sing, as though she was tuned in to some alien radio-station, and its melodies were whining around her skull.
As she listened to them Cal stepped around the corner, startling her.
‘I’ve found a way,’ he said, and led her round to what had once been the cinema’s emergency exit. It too was padlocked, but both chain and lock were well rusted. He had already found himself half a brick, with which he now berated the lock. Brick-shards flew off in all directions, but after a dozen blows the chain surrendered, Cal put his shoulder to the door, and pushed. There was a commotion from inside, as a mirror and several other items piled against the door toppled over; but he was able to force a gap large enough for them to squeeze through.
2
The interior was a kind of Purgatory, in which thousands of household items – armchairs, wardrobes, lamps large and small, curtains, rugs – awaited Judgment, piled up in dusty wretchedness. The place stank of its occupants; of things claimed by woodworm and rot and sheer usage; of once fine pieces now so age-worn even their makers would not have given them house room.
And beneath the smell of decrepitude, something more bitter and more human. The scent of sweat perhaps, soaked up by the boards of a sick bed, or in the fabric of a lamp that had burned through a night whose endurer had known no morning. Not a place to linger too long.
They separated once more, for speed’s sake.
‘Anything that looks promising,’ Cal said, ‘holler.’
He was now eclipsed by piles of furniture.
The whine in Suzanna’s skull did not die down once she was out of the sun; it worsened. Maybe it was the enormity of the task before them that made her head spin, like an impossible quest from some faery-tale, seeking a particle of magic in the wilderness of decay.
The same thought, though formulated differently, was passing through Cal’s mind. The more he searched, the more he doubted his memory. Maybe it hadn’t been Gilchrist they’d named; or perhaps the removal men had decided the profit made bringing the carpet here would not repay their effort.
As he turned a corner, he heard a scraping sound from behind a stack of furniture.
‘Suzanna?’ he said. The word went out and returned unanswered. The noise had already faded behind him, but it had sent adrenalin rushing through his system, and it was with speedier step that he made his way to the next mountain of goods and chattels. Even before he came within five yards of it his eyes had alighted upon the rolled carpet that was all but concealed beneath half a dozen dining chairs and a chest of drawers. All of these items lacked price-tags, which suggested they were recent, unsorted acquisitions.
He went down on his knees and pulled at the edge of the carpet, in an attempt to see the design. The border was damaged, the weave weak. When he pulled he felt strands snap. But he could see enough to confirm what his gut already knew: that this was the carpet from Rue Street, the carpet which Mimi Laschenski had lived and died protecting; the carpet of the Fugue.
He stood up and started to unpile the chairs, deaf to the sound of approaching footsteps at his back.
3
The first thing Suzanna saw was a shadow on the ground. She looked up.
A face appeared between two wardrobes, only to move off again before she could call it by its name.
Mimi! It was Mimi.
She walked over to the wardrobes. There was no sign of anyone. Was she losing her sanity? First the din in her head, now hallucinations?
And yet, why were they here if they didn’t believe in miracles? Doubt was drowned in a sudden rush of hope – that the dead might somehow break the seal on the invisible world and come amongst the living.
She called her grandmother’s name, softly. And she was granted an answer. Not in words, but in the scent of lavender water. Off to her left, down a corridor of piled tea-chests, a ball of dust rolled and came to rest. She went towards it, or rather towards the source of the breeze that had carried it, the scent getting stronger with every step she took.
4
‘That’s my property, I believe,’ said the voice at Cal’s back. He turned. Shadwell was standing a few feet from him. His jacket was unbuttoned.
‘Perhaps you’d stand aside, Mooney, and let me claim what’s mine.’
Cal wished he’d had the presence of mind to come here armed. At that moment he’d have had no hesitation in stabbing Shadwell through his gleaming eye and calling himself a hero for it. As it was, all he had were his bare hands. They’d have to suffice.
He took a step towards Shadwell, but as he did so the man stood aside. There was somebody standing behind him. One of the sisters, no doubt; or their bastards.
Cal didn’t wait to see, but turned and picked up one of the chairs from those dumped on the carpet. His action brought a small avalanche; chairs spilling between him and the enemy. He threw the one he held towards the shadowy form that had taken Shadwell’s place. He picked up a second, and threw it the way of the