Conrad Williams - Decay Inevitable

“Tim?” Sean called gently, thinking, Alderley Edge?

The door to one of the cabins had not been closed properly. Sean let himself in and found Tim sitting on a chair by the porthole, trying to get the cork out of a bottle of rum.

“Do you want a hand with that, Tim?”

Tim tossed the bottle to him. “I’d rather you called me Alderley. Or Mr. Edge. Yes, Mr. Edge would be best.”

He took two glasses from a leggy cupboard that had been customised to deal with the absurd angles and set them down on the table. Sean poured. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, taking one of the glasses and drinking deeply.

“Any question you ask, I could ask of you,” Tim parried.

“I’m here because a girl died. If we’re playing quid pro quo , then I believe it’s your turn.”

He was still the gawky, ponderous Tim when you got up close. But cleaner somehow. Sharper. None of the serous fluids that wept from his cavities, or rumbled in his chest were in evidence here. The boy was almost good-looking. He realised that this would be answer enough for his question, but Tim led him in a different direction.

“There’s gold in these hills,” he said. “Why should I tell you about it?”

“Smuggling?” Sean guessed.

The curl went from Tim’s lip. “How would you know about that?”

“Oh come on, it’s obvious. I’ve been with Vernon on his little trips around the Northwest. I’ve seen his hand-overs. The little parcels. What’s in them?”

“You don’t know?” The curl returned.

“I could make you tell me.”

“You have no power over me here,” he purred.

Sean reached out to grab Tim’s arm, but his fist squeezed the meat out of both ends until he was holding on to nothing. It was like trying to grasp water. Tim’s arm reattached itself as he watched.

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” Tim said. “See, you’re not the only one who knows Latin.”

“Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas regumque turres,” Sean said, enjoying the crease in Tim’s forehead.

“Fuck off, Sean,” he said. “I’m strong here.”

“And you, such a spaz back in Warrington.”

“You’re dead, you know that, if you go back. Pig.”

“You been reading up on me, have you? Doing a bit of research?”

“Vernon is disappointed in you. He thought you were good stuff. He thought you were going to help him for years to come. He’s mostly disappointed in his own judgement though. He’s a harsh critic, is Vernon.”

“Which one of you was it?” Sean said. “Killed Naomi?”

“The name means nothing to me.”

“Do you at least know why she died? You were, after all, at her funeral.”

“In the bird’s nest, I am a quail’s egg, matey. If you’re looking for ostrich produce, you’re in the wrong place. I was at the funeral to keep a look out–”

“With your eyes?”

“–for somebody who wanted to disrupt the ceremony before she was put into that quiet earth. Anybody who wanted to make contact. She was still useful to some people even when dead. In the ground it was game over. We were there to protect our interests.”

“Well you didn’t see me, did you?”

“Maybe we did, but you wouldn’t have been classed as dangerous. Sorry to disappoint you. No, the danger would have come from someone a little less obvious. Someone using this place as a shield from which to attack us.”

Sean refilled their glasses. The paper parcel had been hidden somewhere. Sean sat back in his chair and sipped his drink. The walls of the room were festooned with sea-faring equipment: photographs of sailing boats, a barometer, portraits of salty old Jack Tars, a sextant hanging from a hook. Tim sat on the other side of the table, his head tilted, hands clasped softly together like those of a priest taking confession.

Sean heard a bell tolling in the distance, and a voice bellowing “Seven o’clock and all’s well!”

“That’s the sentinel,” Tim informed him. “The watch has started.”

“The watch?”

“Every night, from seven till dawn. This is the time of day when all the fun starts.”

“I’d like to see some of this fun.”

“You might. But then you’ll definitely see some if you go home too.”

“Are the others in on this?”

Tim blinked at him. “The others?”

“Yeah. Lutz, Robbie. That lot.”

“Foot soldiers. Cannon fodder. They’re helping us out. They don’t know a thing.”

“Helping you try to find the Negstream at the de Fleche building.”

“Why did you leave the flatfoot club if you’re so clever?”

“That’s nothing to do with you.”

Tim leaned across the desk, his hands splaying on the wood. “And, my friend, this place has nothing to do with you. Stay clear, or you will be harmed. I promise you that.”

“I won’t stop until I find out who killed Naomi.”

“I can’t protect you, Sean. I won’t protect you.”

“I don’t need protection from you, muppet-boy. Who’s going to look after you, at the end of the day?”

Tim smiled. “I am a king here, Sean. I’m better off here than I am back home. I don’t need protection. I’m well looked after. I’m untouchable.”

“I suppose it was you who burned the buildings down, once you were sure of where the Negstreams were.”

“Of course. Just following orders.”

“There are others. You haven’t got a stranglehold on this place, you know.”

“That’s not our concern.”

“Then what is?”

“Work it out yourself, you so-called Peeler.”

Sean stood up. “I’ll see you again, Mr. Edge.” He walked over to the door. “Thanks for the rum.”

EMMA WAS SITTING by the bridge when he returned. She was kicking out at a flock of shabby sea-birds that were circling her, shrieking for food.

“Have fun in the market?” she asked, but the cockiness in her voice cracked as soon as she spoke. She went to him and hugged him tightly.

“I was worried,” she said.

“It’s nice to know that.”

“Don’t leave me alone here ever again.”

He buried his face into her neck and breathed her smell deep into him. “I won’t. I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Where to now?”

Sean lifted his head to look at the river. “I suppose we should try to find the hill. I expect we’ll find answers there.”

Emma scanned the horizon, a daunting panorama filled with black glass and towers made from steel and neon signs that burned like little suns. Packed into the interstices were suffocating markets like the one Sean had explored, great scaffolds in which tents and bivouacs fluttered, hundreds of metres off the ground. The roads were jammed with dead cars that were either improvised homes for some or materials to be cannibalised for skeletal scooters that putt-putted along pavements thronged with tramps or thieves, and dead bodies that could not be buried for lack of space. They were salted, these corpses, and left to desiccate. Emma saw some of their mummified flesh used for storm shutters on crude windows. She saw others floating on the surface of the river.

“Do you think this is the kind of place where you might find a hill? A pond? A wood?”

“No,” Sean said. “But it must be here. It must.”

“De Fleche came here to stay. There must be more to it than this. Why would he want to stay here?”

“You’re right. We’ll find it. But let’s go back first. I want to talk to somebody.”

Emma held his hand. “What if we can’t get back the way we got in?”

He smiled. “Well, at least it will be fun trying, won’t it?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THRESHOLD

WHEN HE WENT back to confront George about the marks on his arm, and to ask if he knew of anybody who might help treat his complaint, he saw that George had skin problems of his own. The yards of skin that contained the man had been stuffed into the toilet, as if it was a peel-off costume made of paper that could be flushed away. No other trace of him remained.