44
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
‘Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick,
Jack jump over
The candle stick.’
In the cold sepulchral hall Jack remained by Reception until he was sure his Host was not in earshot. Stella had assumed the person following him last night was male. He had not corrected her, because the truth had dawned and it was all he could do to hide his agitation. His Host was following him. Stella would not understand; nor did he want her to.
‘You’re late,’ the old man growled.
‘Sorry.’
‘I like punctuality.’ He was querulous.
Jack scooted along the crawl space and popped up beside him in the river.
‘That space is cleared for the new build, but I don’t have the information. That dealership at the junction is coming down soon.’ He stabbed a finger at a low white building on the corner of King Street and St Peter’s Square. ‘The demolition site will need fencing off when the time comes.’
‘Are you sure? That square is listed.’
The man glared at him. Jack snatched up a Stanley knife and poked it into mud at the river’s edge.
‘The river’s crumbling by the Harrods Depository. I could do that.’ Jack indicated a threadbare patch near Hammersmith Bridge. On the south bank the towpath went as far as the borough boundary. He knew it well: a night-time route for more than one Host. The willingness of anyone to choose it in the dark told Jack that person had the mind of a murderer.
Jack was pleased the old man had not bowed to convention and painted the river blue. The Thames was never blue. He had coloured it according to differing weather and the currents. At the Bell Steps it was the sheet-metal grey of the thick cloud, with a scrawl of scum drifting downstream. On the north bank, stained cotton signified slime strung from iron mooring hoops – tiny washers daubed burnt umber for rust – exposed at low tide.
‘I can start now.’
‘Too late.’
Jack heard the key turn. His Host was back.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, I was delayed. It’s time for bed.’
The old man dipped beneath the streets and on all fours pushed past Jack along the tunnel. He called out, ‘Did you get the new book?’
‘No. I had to see someone. I’ll get you a nice hot drink.’
From the wheezing and grunting Jack guessed she was helping her father out of the other end. The reek of solvent did not offset the stink of urine. He heard the two move like a slow sack race across the floorboards. Once again the old man had hidden him. The street-mending was their secret. He felt absurdly joyful, it was a long time since he and his dad had built model bridges and tunnels – being engineers together.
‘Who were you talking to?’ Her tone was bright and by the way.
Jack broke into a sweat. She had been trailing him. She knew he was there.
‘Who do you talk to when you’re alone?’ the man wheezed.
The light in the tunnel was extinguished. Jack heard the door close.
He flashed his torch over deserted streets: a searchlight panning the city. The roads were lit in high relief and he soon found Marquis Way and Britton Drive. The dilapidation was precise: the laundry, the bricks streaked with a mix of putty and typing fluid. Fine wire was sprayed green for weeds; peeling emulsion dried and flaked represented nettles.
The wasteland was lumpy with grit and more green wire for the sycamore saplings. Discarded doll’s furniture and scraps of paper lying amid actual soil created seamless reality. Jack was used to passing sprawling acres with ripped sofas, their guts spilling, upturned fridges, splintered planks of wood and rusting oil drums metres from manicured gated communities like Stella’s. In these pockets of nondescript land, bounded by razor wire, awaiting regeneration, his Hosts walked unafraid.
One road ran for over a quarter of a metre without interruption and came up hard against the railway tracks at the Chiswick border. Jack moved the torchlight along the long straight tarmac in search of a name.
Spelling Way. Two more streets ran off the edge of the model, one overshadowed by a gasometer and a straggle of rundown warehouses. Taking care not to snap chimneys and aerials he narrowed the beam and found an enamelled square on a wall. From the river hatch he couldn’t read it, so he risked discovery and crawled out. If his Host walked in now he would have to introduce himself. Jack was appalled to discover the idea frightened him.
He circled the model and noted another long road. He memorized the name. It had a high wall along much of the length and a disused factory building on the other that looked as if redevelopment had begun and been abandoned. He recognized Mafeking Avenue. It wasn’t in any of Terry’s photographs. Tolworth Street, not far from where Stella’s mother lived, was shorter than the others. Jack had abandoned Stella tonight. He would make up for it with this new information.
He paused outside the kitchen where he could hear the kettle filling. She could come out any moment. He was a high-wire walker without a net, tempting fate. Outside the flat, he made himself take the key down from the lintel, fit it into the lock and silently close the door. He replaced it.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock…
Singing under his breath, Jack climbed over the wall and affected a stroll up to King Street to stop himself running like a mad thing. The ornate gates to Ravenscourt Park tempted him in, but that was unfair, his Host would never scale them. He must give her a fighting chance. He circled the area, dipping down one street and up another, sauntering like a true flaneur, leading her a merry dance. Jack borrowed the phrase from another Host. Round and round we go.
He was on the Great West Road. The rain was fine, insidious; he hugged into his coat. But, like a veil, the rain soaked the wool and plastered his hair to his head.
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, cradle and all.
Jack strolled down the ramp to the subway beneath the carriageway. He disguised his gait – a precaution against new technical means of recognition – with a slight limp. Without checking the mirror that reflected the passage, he went inside.
A person, hooded and shapeless in the poor light, was waiting halfway along.