Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘Praying. But you have to be careful. Sudden prayers make God jump.’ Tate smiled. He had no teeth at all-an unusual sight these days. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I suppose I wanted to find out a bit about you. My name’s Arthur Bryant. I was told you don’t talk.’

‘I don’t talk to her.’ He jerked a dirty thumb at the wall.

‘Why not?’

‘She has nothing to say. It’s all square meals and personal hygiene. Not an ounce of poetry in her soul that hasn’t been scrubbed away with carbolic.’

‘You must have been in this neighbourhood a long time. Everyone seems to know you.’

‘You won’t catch me out like that. I don’t have to answer questions.’

‘Oh, it’s not really questions, just conversation. I’m interested. Tell me, why would you sleep in the drain, when you have a nice warm bed here?’

‘It’s safer.’

‘Is someone giving you trouble?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘But you think they will?’

No answer. Tate turned back to the window.

‘Well, the weather’s changed. The tunnels are flooding. You can’t stay down there through the winter.’

‘The water will always find a way to go wherever it wants. It can go around me.’

‘But it won’t.’

‘Oh yes, it will.’

‘How?’

‘I can make it.’

‘I see.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I told you, I’ve been hearing things about the area that interest me.’ Bryant sat on the bed beside his host. ‘These houses, the residents leave a few marks to show they were there, then move on. It’s funny when you think about it.’

‘They were built for the families of the men who built the railways. Little terraced boxes for the workers.’

‘So I understand.’

‘That’s why there’s no decoration, see. No mouldings. No panels or friezes. Workers don’t need to see beauty.’

‘Why not?’

‘Gives them ideas above their station. They won’t miss what they’ve never had.’

As he spoke, Tate lost his nondescript appearance and attitude. For a moment, Bryant was afforded a glimpse of the man inside. He wondered if Tate had once been a teacher. ‘Who are you?’ he asked gently.

‘Poor and old is a terrible combination.’ Tate shook his head, barely hearing. ‘You become so unimportant. Your past achievements are forgotten. No one believes you. Your life is trodden on by strangers. You’ve nothing to show anyone who you were.’

‘Then tell me.’

Tate glanced back at the window. This time, Bryant saw nervousness in his eyes. ‘I’m no one. Let’s wash it all away, wash the past away until there are only clean new things left.’

Bryant decided to try another tack. ‘You must know the streets around here very well.’

‘I know the streets, the houses, and under the streets.’

‘There seem to be lots of ghost stories.’

‘Because of the river,’ Tate agreed. ‘Is it any wonder? The roads were laid over the Cloaca Maxima, the Fleet sewer, a highway of corpses. Plague and pestilence. On its way to the witch of Camden Town, it flooded and rotted the timbers of the houses.’

‘You mean Mother Red Cap.’ Bryant remembered the pub of the same name that stood on the site of the infamous witch’s house, now pointlessly renamed and spoiled. It had been the reason why Maggie Armitage had based her office, the Coven of St James the Elder, on its first floor.

Tate’s voice grew fainter. ‘1809-the snow was thick, and suddenly thawed in bright sunshine. The torrent of the Fleet was forced between the river’s arches, gaining great speed until it burst into the houses of the poor and drowned them. It always drowned the poor.’ He rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘I had a book on it once. I haven’t got it any more. They’ve no books here, just magazines about football and telly. I miss the books. I’ve just my own special ones, but they’re not for reading. I’ve nothing to read.’

‘Look, if I could get you some books, would you talk to me again?’

For a moment Tate seemed pleased by the prospect. Then his eyes clouded. ‘Too late to talk. Look, my useless hands.’ He raised trembling red fingers. The thumb of his right hand had been broken, and the bone had knitted poorly.

‘I’ll bring some books anyway,’ said Bryant, rising. ‘Please, stay here at the hostel for a few days, so I can find you.’

Tate returned his gaze to the window. ‘I can’t leave anyway. The rain’s not going to stop until the river finds a path again,’ he warned. ‘Then it will all be too late.’

At half past one in the morning, Camden Town was almost as busy as it had been that afternoon. Many offices around the lock ran a twenty-four-hour day, light-industrial units refitted with technology, occupied by sound engineers, TV-camera operators, studio personnel, website designers, artists, writers, traffickers using so much electronic equipment that the town was a hotspot on the grid, an area that never cooled down or turned off. Factor in the clubs, bars, pubs, restaurants and all-night stores, the crawling traffic, the trucks blasting trash from the gutters, the teens looking to buy drugs and the tourists just looking, and you had streets that no amount of rain could clear. No witches ruled here now, just neo-goths and charity-muggers, no fishermen beside rushing brooks, just dealers selling grass and pills from the sides of their mouths.

But to step from the gaudy ribbon of the road into the backstreets was to shed a hundred years, among willows fringing wrought-iron gates, dim lights tracing draped windows, angled gables and broken tiles, crooked bollards, empty pavements. The roads were filled with parked vehicles, but otherwise had not changed; they still twisted in unreliable curvature, encouraging the lost to venture just a little further. The speed humps and one-way systems added a new layer of trickery. Nascent lanes led nowhere, amputated stumps of cobbled street were sealed off by railways, canals and housing developments, dead churches and wet green gardens remained in forgotten tranches of land.

Aaron cut a diagonal path across the maze of backstreets. He had been born here, and would have known the way blindfold, guided by the distant thrum of arterial roads. As he slipped through alleys toward Balaklava Street, he thought guiltily about his situation. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, but felt powerless to end what he had begun. He had tried to think of ways of stopping, but now it was too late, and whichever course of action he chose would hurt someone he cared for.

As he passed between high walls topped with broken bottles, it started to rain again. The hottest summer on record had produced a season of statistic-shattering storms. Thunder tumbled in a distant ragnarok of temper as he approached the house. The doused lights suggested that Jake had given up waiting for him and had gone to bed. The sound of his key in the lock was hidden by fresh falls of rain. He ascended the stairs in darkness, shedding his clothes on the landing. The bedroom was silent. At least he had delayed an argument until the morning.

Aaron carefully folded back his side of the duvet and slid into bed. Jake was on the far side, a cold shoulder turned against him. The window shone rivulets of rain on to the walls, as if the room was crying. Aaron settled against the pillow, listening. He thought back over the events of the evening, feeling ashamed of himself. Shifting closer, he pressed his hand against the small of his partner’s back, but there was no response.

Disturbed by the shifting weight on the mattress, Jake’s right hand thudded against the side of the bed and his head tipped to face Aaron. Even in the dark, Aaron could see that there was something wrong with Jake’s face. It seemed to reflect the light from the streetlamp, as though it was moulded from slick plastic rather than made of flesh.