Songs From Spider Street Read online

  The drawer slides out smoothly and he slips his fingers underneath the piles of forgotten invoices and dubious newspaper clippings. He has done this so often that his fingertips can almost dispense with the gift of memory. The faint, bitter scent of aniseed reaches him as he lifts free the large brown envelope.

  Putting it down carefully, he slips open the flap and slides out the precious contents, placing them side by side on the desk.

  Two rare prints by Louis John Willets.

  Joseph has seen them many times before, almost every evening, but they never lose their power to delight and mesmerise him. He doesn’t know how the old man got them or how much they had cost him but, along with the painting, they are the real reason he stays in his job. His own almost-private art gallery.

  The bitter scent is much sharper now, as always, rising from the surface of the images lying before him. His eyes are inevitably drawn to the one that he places on the right hand side, as if that is its rightful place.

  It depicts the head and shoulders of a woman. Stretching away behind her is a landscape with some low shrubs and, behind them, the dim representation of the house. In every picture, the house. Somewhere.

  He stares into the woman’s deep jade eyes, like no colour he’s ever seen, holding him and inviting him into the picture. He dares to let his fingers trace the shape of her face, fringed gently with long sage green hair. Surely that couldn’t be its true colour. Every time he sees it he wonders why the artist has painted it that way.

  At the bottom of the print sits the mark that told him this was print number three in an edition of just 150. And the simple title ‘Leoni’.

  Joseph knows this was the artist’s wife. Willets was a notorious abuser of drink, drugs and women, yet she had stayed with him for over a decade before her uncommented-upon disappearance from the public eye three years ago.

  Now no-one knew where Willets was either. Shrunk back into the dim depths of his turbulent canvases, maybe, or running headlong from an acid reputation that threatened to swallow him whole.

  Even the lavish catalogue of the national museum’s huge retrospective late last year gave no clues. The learned essays included contrived to be agonisingly vague when it came to recent biographical details.

  The romantic buffoon in Joseph wants to believe Willets had used a portion of his enormous riches to buy the silence of the art world while he slipped away to be secretly reunited with his absent wife. He suspects the truth is more troubling and possibly violent, knowing what he does of Willet’ ‘reputation.

  The pungent, acrid fragrance rising from the paper begins to make Joseph’s head spin. He presumes it is something to do with the printing process but it seems strange he’s never smelt it anywhere else.

  Gingerly picking up the prints, the second of which he ignores as usual, he carefully slides them back into their home and tries to close the drawer. It resists him. He tries again but something prevents it from closing fully.

  He peers into the narrow space. Unable to see any obstruction, he tries again but still it resists. Running his hand along the underside of the drawer, he finds the obstruction and pulls it free. A small, card-backed envelope.

  He opens it and removes the single photograph it contains. The woman from the print smiles up at him, her arms wrapped around a younger version of his employer. Slightly behind them and to one side stands the famous painter, his left hand stuffed deep into his pocket while the other clutches a bottle of bright green liquor to his thigh as he squints in the bright sunlight. The rocky coastline gives no clue as to the photograph’s location.

  Joseph draws in his breath slowly. Leoni is Willets’ wife, yet here she is with her arms wrapped blissfully around a smiling Kaltenbach as if they are lovers, while Willets’ bearded grimace betrays his deep unhappiness. Joseph begins to understand the price the old man might have had to pay for his precious prints.

  The following day Joseph sees his elderly employer as a mystery made flesh rather than just the marginally benevolent tyrant of the workplace.

  What he wants above all is to question Kaltenbach about his relationship with the painter and his wife. But as far as the old man is concerned, it is a relationship that Joseph couldn’t possibly know about. Joseph’s day drags past at an even slower pace than usual, and the comings and goings of the mortuary take on the colours of interminable finality.

  As the evening comes, Joseph is more eager than ever for the old man to leave and go home or to a bar or wherever he goes. Joseph doesn’t want to know but he is desperate for the old man to be gone.

  Making a pretence of sweeping up, he hovers near Kaltenbach’s door. The old man has someone with him, he can hear voices through the door, so he wanders off to occupy himself with a string of pointless tasks only to return 20 minutes later.

  As he approaches the door, Joseph can still hear the voices. One is the old man’s but he doesn’t recognise the other. It is none of Kaltenbach’s regular business contacts and is high and angry, possibly even that of a woman.

  The door is too thick to hear what is being said clearly, but Joseph can tell it is heated. Finally, he hears things being thrown, smashing, followed by a short wail.

  Now is the time, he decides, pushing the door open. “Mr Kaltenbach, is …”

  The old man sits slumped in his chair, his glasses lying on the desk at his side and a small glass in his hand. At the bottom of the glass is a small amount of a thick-looking white liquid, while at Kaltenbach’s feet a broken bottle leaks a jade green liquor onto the tiled floor.

  Coughing at the pungent, bitter-sweet smell rising from the spilt liquid, Joseph glances quickly around the small room. The old man is alone. There is nowhere to hide in the cramped office.

  “I … I” begins Joseph as the old man’s head jerks up. His red eyes shine out in his pale face as a line of green-tinged drool heads towards his stubbled chin.

  “What … what, Joseph. What do you want,” he demands agitatedly.

  “I thought something was wrong, Mr Kaltenbach. That’s …” He stops and stoops to steady the old man, who threatens to slide onto the floor. Kaltenbach tugs at his tie, straightening it before pushing himself heavily to his feet.

  “I am going home,” he tells Joseph slowly. “Perhaps I’ll be left in peace there.”

  Joseph doesn’t know if the remark is aimed at him but merely says after the departing man: “I’ll clear up the broken glass, Mr Kaltenbach. Are you sure you’re OK?” A vague wave is his only answer.

  As he clears away the fragments Joseph picks up the largest piece, held together by the label. Absinthe. He’d heard of it but he didn’t know anywhere where you could buy it.

  He remembers reading something about it in an article on Willets which claimed it was his poison of choice. He reads the label - aperitif anise, qualite superieure, 70% volume alcool. Jesus! 70%!

  If Kaltenbach’s been drinking this he deserves pity, thinks Joseph. Concern that the old man will be his own next customer drives Joseph into his coat and out onto the darkened street. He heads in the direction of Kaltenbach’s home, hoping to catch the old man up. After all, he can’t have gone that far, can he?

  The empty street seems to stink of the absinthe he has just been clearing up. He must have some on his clothes, he thinks, but the smell seems to grow more insistent as he goes.

  Rushing down a darkened arcade, its shops all displaying pinched fronts with little of use in their windows, Joseph notices for the first time how few people there are on the streets. The odd fugitive figure trudges past, looking ill and distracted, but he’d expected to see more pedestrians this early in the evening.

  Once he is sure he sees the old man disappearing around a corner and hurries to catch him up.

  Rounding the corner he finds himself in a short street with three possible exits. A lone car dashes past the end of one street. Joseph decides to follow his instinct and heads for the farthest street.

  Around the corner, just out of reach of his
eyes, there are voices. A couple whispering urgently in words of love or anger, possibly both. Could one of them be Kaltenbach’s? Sometimes it sounds as though there are three voices.

  He rounds another corner with quick caution, the street stretches ahead emptily. The voices still outpace him, murmuring down the dark street and around the next turning before he can catch them, stretched shadows sneaking after.

  His ears strain ahead of his progress along the paved way. He is certain that one of the voices is familiar but it does not belong to someone he has been close to.

  He leans against a darkened shop window as his breath comes shorter. A glance shows him small glittering objects in the dim light. They sit enticingly behind a yellowed cellophane blind, rare shells shining from their half-submerged cave of secrets. Just the sort of things he’d be interested in buying if the shop was bright with activity.

  Pushing himself upright, his pursuit continues as the voices, more distant now, threaten to reveal both their identities and secrets. Could their jealousy really be ready to drop away?

  His pursuit is frustrated by the vagaries of town planning or the absence of lighting time and again.

  Only when he realises he is heading out of town, away from where his employer lives, does he pause. Yet he is sure the old man is ahead of him. A mixture of curiosity and concern drives him on.

  The trees conceal whoever lies ahead of him, yet he still hears their voices. Their constant debate and his pursuit has lasted over an hour, yet he has not caught sight of them once.

  When the trees begin to thin, he finds himself struggling through thick clumps of shrubs. They are strewn all down the hill and their pungent fragrance is almost overwhelming.

  He looks up and is met by the sight of the Willets house. The shrubs stop several dozen yards short of the dwelling, as if the soil from there on is poisoned, unable to support them.

  Joseph peers through the darkness, struggling to make out whether there are one, two or three figures heading quickly towards the house.

  Only after he hears the large front door slam emphatically does he pluck up the courage to advance the last few yards to the house. He circles it, hoping to peer in through one of the windows at what goes on inside but none are lit. Finally, he makes his way around to the front door again.

  Even though he heard it slam, when he pushes against it, it opens. Perhaps someone has left in the time he took to search around the house, he thinks.

  He steps into the darkness of the finely decorated hallway, not daring to call out. If he is challenged he decides to say he is lost and seeking directions or the use of a telephone to call a taxi.

  Room after room is dark and empty until finally he comes to a large room at the back of the house that seems to be half decorated, perhaps neglected part way through a renovation scheme. It has the same odour as Kaltenbach’s office, but much fainter. A small lamp sits on the floor near the far wall and he traces the wire to a wall socket. Flicking it on, the light reveals an astonishing sight.

  The wall is scrawled across with images of Rorschach rot. Horses dance next to priapic giants; animal innards are piled high on a collection of severed children’s limbs as a deformed house begins to topple onto them; a disgraced saint’s hand hangs from some elaborate railings; a king’s crown is beaten flat, ready to be remade by an angry but conscientious jester. Damp has drawn this atlas of disasters for his eyes alone, he seems to sense.

  But could Willets have seen these things, too? This, his endless fount of inspiration?

  The odour of absinthe seeps into his consciousness. It has been there since he entered the room but now it seems stronger.

  Looking around he picks up the lamp and holds it higher. At the other end of the room stands an ornate table laden with bottles. Green bottles. Absinthe.

  He plays out the wire as far as it will go until he can set the lamp down in the centre of the room. Turning he gasps, noticing for the first time a woman dressed in green standing behind the table.

  He laughs softly. “Sorry. You gave …” He stops, realising there is no-one there. A trick of the light or rather the lack of it, he thinks. Not quite trusting his senses, he circles the table several times, looking for some trace of her, but finds nothing.

  When he eventually stops, Joseph looks down at the table. Nearly a dozen bottles of absinthe stare up at him, all the same brand and identical to the one in Kaltenbach’s office. Why so much, he wonders? You could do yourself some real damage with that much.

  He picks up the nearest bottle to read the label and notices something odd about it.

  He peers past the distinctive blue and silver label into the glowing depths of the bottle. There is something in the bottom, twisting slowly as he tips the bottle to the light.

  A worm, that’s it. A worm? But isn’t it Mezcal that has a worm in the bottle? He brings the bottle closer to his face.

  Only the table’s edge stops the bottle from hitting the floor and smashing.

  He stoops to look again as the bottle rolls to a halt against its companions. He hardly draws breath as he fears to see what he knows is there.

  The distinctive bearded face of Willets, reproduced perfectly in hideous miniature, gazes absently at him from the sticky green depths.

  He gasps, scuttling back. Willets was in the bottle. That’s where he was. Shrunken. Drowned.

  His mind, turning towards the safety of the shadows, wants to disbelieve the impossible. Shuffling round to the side of the table, he stretches out his hand and gently lifts another bottle. Barely holding its encrusted top between his thumb and forefinger, he lifts it up to the light. A tiny feminine figure drifts face down in the enclosed emerald current, dead green eyes dreaming through a sunken cavern of green flames.

  Placing the bottle gently down, praying that he doesn’t disturb the perfect little figure floating within, he moves along the row.

  Here he is. The object of his pursuit. Old man Kaltenbach sunk at the very bottom of the bottle. A soft smile sitting on his lips, his eyes hidden behind his filthy lenses.

  In turn each bottle reveals its secret. Each holds a tiny, dead figure that he does not recognise in its liquid embrace.

  Except one. The end bottle stands apart from the others, untenanted. Waiting.

  And, just beyond the door, those voices come again.

  THE ICE HORSE

  They have been standing on the ice for nearly half a day now. Watching me. I can just make them out through the frozen window that I have scraped away. The old man finally turns and begins to walk towards the huge gate cut into the wall of ice. The others, in deference, turn their gaze from me and follow him.

  Perhaps they stayed to ensure that I did not try to break through the massive plug of ice that sealed the horse’s anus, shutting me inside. One carried a rifle; a needless precaution. I would hardly have had the strength, not after what I’ve been through.

  I do not know when they will be back, when my release will come. Nobody would tell me. Perhaps nobody could.

  A giant horse made from ice. Only one mind could have conceived of so bizarre a place of incarceration; Usko CeKaracal. Old though he now is, his mind is still unmatched.

  Eventually the pain will go. I’ve heard tell that numbness creeps into every limb after a while. I can’t let that happen; soon after that my end will come. That’s not what I’m here for. I must stay alive to get out of here, to find my family.

  I remember hearing of CeKaracal when I was young; he must have been old even then. His Palace of Songs and Sighs was celebrated by everyone and always swamped with sightseers … if that’s the right word for for something that appeals only to the ears.

  And I had a print of the sumptuous marble submersible - the perfect meeting of art and engineering that he created for King Meriette. There were suspicions that the railgun-armed dirigibles that sank the sub on its maiden voyage were also designed by the old man; the King’s troublesome niece had been on board and everyone knew she wanted to rid hers
elf of any possible challenge to her throne. There were no survivors, of course.

  When they came that night, and I saw my wife and sons for the last time as they were taken away, I remember thinking that perhaps I was responsible for all this. The crack of the gun butt on the back of my head came as a small mercy; a door through which to escape the unbearable, at least for a while. When I woke they showed me pictures of Suvi, my wife. I don’t believe they were real; I can’t.

  The sun is high and bright, magnified a hundredfold through the cathedral-high walls of the animal’s rib cage. Small rivulets trickle down here and there from high up. My eyes water with the pain of looking. I ball my hands up and stuff them into my eyes, rubbing away the tears that I am afraid will freeze painfully on my already ruined skin. The orbiting furnace is too far away to thaw me or revive me. What I need is food to feed my own furnace. When will they come?

  The cold has dug its way into me. My senses, far from being numbed, ring like huge bells; each vibration tears through me and takes my breath with it as it leaves. I don’t know how long I can endure this. It is as though the cold senses what damage it is doing to me and rejoices in it. Perhaps, I sometimes think, the horse is more than just a giant sculpture, a perverse prison. Perhaps, I often feel, it lives and thinks and drives me deliberately, but too slowly and cruelly, towards madness. How could I have thought I would escape? My cold, mad heart has trapped me.

  In the winding galleries of the great gut of the horse I finally find food. On a raised table of ice sits a small selection of fruits, there by the beneficence of my captors. They are all rock hard, of course, but if I hold them under my clothes long enough they should be edible. I can barely afford to sacrifice the warmth but what choice do I have? I have to eat.

  The great artist’s ascendancy only suffered once; when his grand masterpiece ‘Arced Angels’, a pair of intersecting tunnels of water in the sky, collapsed, taking nearly 40 visiting dignitaries to their death in the cold waters below. Again, no survivors. Not even CeKaracal’s decade-long exile could erase the shame or the memory.