'Huh?'

He offered a tiny smile.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Must be Mad Mooney talking.'

Part Three

The Exiles

'Wandering between two worlds, one dead. The other powerless to be born '

Matthew Arnold The Grande Chartreuse

I.

THE RIVER.

The defeat they'd sustained was utter. The Salesman had snatched the Weave from Cal's very fingers. But, though they had nothing to be jubilant about, they had at least survived the clash. Was it simply that fact that made his spirits rise when they stepped out of the warehouse into the warm air?

It smelt of the Mersey; of silt and salt. And it was there -at Suzanna's instigation - they went. They walked without exchanging a word, down Jamaica Street to the Dock Road, then followed the high, black wall that bounded the docks until they found a gate that gave them access to the wharfs. The region was deserted. It was years since the last of the big cargo vessels had berthed here to unload. They wandered through a ghost-town of empty warehouses to the river itself, Cal's gaze creeping back, and back again, to the face of the woman at his side. There was some change in her, he sensed; some freight of hidden feeling which he couldn't unlock. The poet had something to say on the subject. 'Lost for words, boy?' he piped up in Cal's head. 'She's a strange one, isn't she?'

That was certainly the truth. From his first sight of her at the bottom of the stairs, she'd seemed haunted. They had that in common. They shared too the same determination, fuelled perhaps by an unspoken fear that they'd lose sight of the mystery they'd dreamt of for so long. Or was he kidding himself, reading lines from his own story into her face? Was it just his eagerness to find an ally that made him see similarities between them?

She was staring into the river, snakes of sunlight from the water playing on her face. He'd known her only a night and a day, but she awoke in him the same contradictions - unease and profound contentment; a sense that she was both familiar and unknown - that his first glimpse of the Fugue had aroused.

He wanted to tell her this, and more, if he could just find the words.

But it was Suzanna who spoke first.

'I saw Immacolata,' she said, 'while you were facing Shadwell...'

'Yes?'

'... I don't quite know how to explain what happened ...'

She began haltingly, still staring at the river as though mesmerized by its motion. He understood some of what she was telling him. That Mimi was part of the Seerkind, the occupants of the Fugue; and Suzanna, her granddaughter, had that people's blood in her. But when she began to talk about the menstruum, the power she'd somehow inherited, or plugged into, or both, he lost any hold on what she was saying. In part because her talk became vaguer, dreamier; in part because staring at her as she struggled to find the words for her feelings gave him the words for his own.

'I love you,' he said. She had stopped trying to describe the torrent of the menstruum; just given herself over to the rhythm of the water as it lapped against the wharf.

He wasn't sure she'd heard him. She didn't move; didn't speak.

Finally, she just said his name.

He suddenly felt foolish. She didn't want professions of love from him; her thoughts were somewhere else entirely. In the Fugue, perhaps, where - after this afternoon's revelations -she had more right to be than he.

'I'm sorry,' he muttered, attempting to cover his faux pas with further fumblings. 'I don't know why I said that. Forget I spoke.'

His denial stung her from her trance. Her gaze left the river and found his face, a look of hurt in her eyes, as though drawing her gaze from its brilliance pained her.

'Don't say that,' she said. 'Never say that.'

She stepped towards him, and put her arms around him, holding him hard. He answered the demand and hugged her in return. Her face was hot against his neck, wetting him not with kisses but with tears. They didn't speak, but stood like that for several minutes, while the river flowed on at their side.

Eventually he said: 'Shall we go back to the house?'

She stepped back and looked at him, seeming to study his face.

'Is it all over; or just beginning?' she asked.

He shook his head.

She made a tiny, sideways glance back at the river. But before its liquid life could claim her again he took hold of her hand and led her back towards the concrete and the brick.

II.

WAKING IN THE DARK.

They returned - through a dusk that had autumn in its hollows - to Chariot Street. There they scoured the kitchen for something to placate their growling stomachs - ate -then retired to Gal's room with a bottle of whisky they'd bought on the way back. The intended debate on what they should do next soon faltered. A mixture of tiredness, and an unease generated by the scene at the river, made the conversation hesitant. They circled the same territory over and over, but there were no inspirations as to how they should proceed.

The only token they had of their adventures to date was the carpet fragment, and it offered up no clues.

The exchange dwindled, half-finished sentences punctuated by longer and still longer silences.

Around eleven, Brendan came home, hailing Cal from below, then retired to bed. His arrival stirred Suzanna. 'I should go,' she said. 'It's late.'

The thought of the room without her made Cal's heart sink.

'Why not stay?' he said. 'It's a small bed,' she replied. 'But it's comfortable.'

She put her hand to his face, and brushed the bruised place around his mouth.

'We're not meant to be lovers,' she said quietly. 'We're too much alike.'

It was bluntly put, and it hurt to have it said, but in the same moment as having any sexual ambition dampened he had a different, and finally more profound, hope confirmed. That they belonged together in this enterprise: she the child of the Fugue, he the innocent trespasser. Against the brief pleasure of making love to her he set the grander adventure, and he knew - despite the dissension from his cock - that he had the better of the deal.

Then we'll sleep,' he said. 'If you want to stay.'

She smiled. 'I want to stay,' she said.

They stripped off their dirty clothing, and slipped beneath the covers. Sleep was upon them before the lamp had cooled.

It was not empty sleep; far from it. There were dreams. Or rather, a particular dream which filled both their heads.

They dreamt a noise. A planet of bees, all buzzing fit to burst their honeyed hearts; a rising swell that was summer's music.

They dreamt smell. A confusion of scents; of streets after rain, and faded cologne, and wind out of a warm country.

But most of all, they dreamt sight.

It began with a pattern: a knotting and weaving of countless strands, dyed in a hundred colours, carrying a charge of energy which so dazzled the sleepers they had to shield their minds' eyes.

And then, as if the pattern was becoming too ambitious to hold its present order, the knots began to slide and slip. The colours at each intersection bled into the air, until the vision was obscured in a soup of pigments through which the loosed strands described their liberty in line and comma and dot, like the brushstrokes of some master calligrapher. At first the marks seemed quite arbitrary - but as each trace drew colour to itself, and another stroke was laid upon it, and another upon that, it became apparent that forms were steadily emerging from the chaos.