Weaveworld. Клайв Баркер
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won prizes,’ said Cal, with some pride. He was keeping his eyes glued to 33, but the pigeon showed no sign of wanting to fly; just preened his wing feathers, and once in a while turned a beady eye up to the sky.
‘Stay there …’ Cal told the bird under his breath, ‘… don’t move.’ Then, to Gideon: ‘Is it all right if I go in? Try and catch him?’
‘Help yourself. The auld girl who had the house’s been carted off to hospital. We’re taking the furniture to pay her bills.’
Cal ducked through into the yard, negotiating the bric-a-brac the trio had dumped there, and went into the house.
It was a shambles inside. If the occupant had ever owned anything of substance it had long since been removed. The few pictures still hanging were worthless; the furniture was old, but not old enough to have come back into fashion; the rugs, cushions and curtains so aged they were fit only for the incinerator. The walls and ceilings were stained by many years’ accrual of smoke, its source the candles that sat on every shelf and sill, stalactites of yellowed wax depending from them.
He made his way through the warren of pokey, dark rooms, and into the hallway. The scene was just as dispiriting here. The brown linoleum rucked up and torn, and everywhere the pervasive smell of must and dust and creeping rot. She was well out of this squalid place, Cal thought, wherever she was; better off in hospital, where at least the sheets were dry.
He began to climb the stairs. It was a curious sensation, ascending into the murk of the upper storey, becoming blinder stair by stair, with the sound of birds scurrying across the slates above his skull, and beyond that the muted cries of gull and crow. Though it was no doubt self-deception, he seemed to hear their voices circling, as though this very place were the centre of their attentions. An image appeared in his head, of a photograph from National Geographical. A study of stars, taken with a slow release camera, the pin-point lights describing circles as they moved, or appeared to move, across the sky, with the Pole Star, the Nail of Heaven, steady in their midst.
The wheeling sound, and the picture it evoked, began to dizzy him. He suddenly felt weak, even afraid.
This was no time for such frailties, he chided himself. He had to claim the bird before it flew off again. He picked up his pace. At the top of the stairs he manœuvred past several items of bedroom furniture, and opened one of the several doors that he was presented with. The room he had chosen was adjacent to the one whose sill 33 occupied. Sun streamed through the curtainless window; the stale heat brought fresh sweat to his brow. The room had been emptied of furniture, the only souvenir of occupancy a calendar for the year 1961. On it, a photograph of a lion beneath a tree, its shaggy, monolithic head laid on vast paws, its gaze contemplative.
Cal went out on to the landing again, selected another door, and was this time delivered into the right room. There, beyond the grimy glass, was the pigeon.
Now it was all a question of tactics. He had to be careful not to startle the bird. He approached the window cautiously. On the sun-drenched sill 33 cocked its head, and blinked its eye, but made no move. Cal held his breath, and put his hands on the frame to haul the window up, but there was no budging it. A quick perusal showed why. The frame had been sealed up years ago, a dozen or more nails driven deep into the wood. A primitive form of crime prevention, but no doubt reassuring to an old woman living alone.
From the yard below, he heard Gideon’s voice. Peering down, he could just see the trio dragging a large rolled-up carpet out of the house, Gideon giving orders in a ceaseless stream.
‘– to my left, Bazo. Left! Don’t you know which is your left?’
‘I’m going left.’
‘Not your left, yer idiot. My left.’
The bird on the sill was undisturbed by this commotion. It seemed quite happy on its perch.
Cal headed back downstairs, deciding as he went that the only option remaining was to climb up on to the yard wall and see if he couldn’t coax the bird down from there. He cursed himself for not having brought a pocketful of grain. Coos and sweet words would just have to do.
By the time he stepped out into the heat of the yard once more, the removal men had successfully manhandled the carpet out of the house, and were taking a rest after their exertions.
‘No luck?’ said Shane, seeing Cal emerge.
‘The window won’t budge. I’ll have to try from down here.’
He caught a deprecating look from Bazo. ‘You’ll never reach the bugger from here,’ the man said, scratching the expanse of beer-gut that gleamed between T-shirt and belt.
‘I’ll try from the wall,’ said Cal.
‘Watch yerself –’ Gideon said.
‘Thanks.’
‘– you could break yer back –’
Using pits in the crumbling mortar for footholds, Cal hauled himself up on to the eight-foot wall that divided this yard from its neighbour.
The sun was hot on his neck and the top of his head, and something of the giddiness he’d experienced climbing the stairs returned. He straddled the wall as though it were a horse, until he got used to the height. Though the perch was the width of a brick, and offered ample enough walking space. heights and he had never been happy companions.
‘Looks like it’s been a nice piece of handiwork,’ said Gideon, in the yard below. Cal glanced down to see that the West Indian was now on his haunches beside the carpet, which he’d rolled out far enough to expose an elaborately woven border.
Bazo wandered over to where Gideon crouched, and scrutinized the property. He was balding, Cal could see, his hair scrupulously pasted down with oil to conceal the spot.
‘Pity it’s not in better nick,’ said Shane.
‘Hold yer horses,’ said Bazo. ‘Let’s have a better look.’
Cal returned his attention to the problem of standing upright. At least the carpet would divert his audience for a few moments; long enough, he prayed, for him to get to his feet. There was no breath of wind here to alleviate the fury of the sun; he could feel sweat trickle down his torso and glue his underwear to his buttocks. Gingerly, he started to stand, bringing one leg up into a kneeling position – both hands clinging to the brick like grim death.
From below, there were murmurs of approval as more of the carpet was exposed to light.
‘Look at the work in that,’ said Gideon.
‘Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’ said Bazo, his voice lowered.
‘I don’t know ’til you tell me,’ came Gideon’s reply.
‘What say we take it down to Gilchrist’s. We might get a price for this.’
‘The Chief’ll know it’s gone,’ Shane protested.
‘Keep it down,’ said Bazo, quietly reminding his companions of Cal’s presence. In fact Cal was far too concerned with his inept tight-rope act to bother himself with their petty theft. He had finally got the soles of both feet up on to the top of the wall, and was about to try standing up.
In the yard, the conversation went on.
‘Take the far end, Shane, let’s have a look at the whole thing …’
‘D’you think it’s Persian?’
‘Haven’t a fuckin’ clue.’
Very slowly, Cal stood upright, his arms extended at ninety degrees from his body. Feeling as stable as he was ever going to feel, he chanced a quick look up at the window sill. The bird was still there.
From below he heard the sound of the carpet being unrolled further, the men’s grunts punctuated with words of admiration.
Ignoring their presence as best he could, he