I

TIME'S GONE BY

1

The people of Chariot Street had witnessed some rare scenes in recent times, but they'd re-established the status quo with admirable zeal. It was just before eight in the morning when Cal got off the bus and began the short walk to the Mooney residence, and everywhere along the street the same domestic rituals that he'd witnessed here since his childhood were being played out. Radios announced the morning's news through open windows and doors: a Parliamentarian had been found dead in his mistress' arms; bombs had been dropped in the Middle East. Slaughter and scandal, scandal and slaughter. And was the tea too weak this morning, my dear?; and did the children wash behind their ears?

He let himself into the house, turning over yet again the problem of what to tell Brendan. Anything less than the truth might beg more questions than it answered; and yet to tell the whole story ... was that even possible? Did the words exist to evoke more than an echo of the sights he'd seen, the feelings he'd felt?

The house was quiet, which was worrying. Brendan had been a dawn riser since his days working on the Docks; even during the worst of recent times he'd been up to greet his grief early.

Cal called his father's name. There was no response. He went through to the kitchen. The garden looked like a battlefield. He called again, then went to search upstairs.

His father's bedroom door was closed. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside, something he'd never known happen before. He knocked lightly.

‘Dad?' he said. ‘Are you there?'

He waited several seconds, listening closely, then repeated his enquiry. This time from within came a quiet sobbing.

‘Thank God.' he breathed. ‘Dad? It's Cal.' The sobbing softened. ‘Will you let me in, Dad?'

There was a short interval; then he heard his father's footsteps as he crossed to the bedroom door. The key was turned; the door was opened a reluctant six inches.

The face on the other side was more shadow than man. Brendan looked neither to have washed nor shaved since the previous day.

‘Oh God ... Dad.'

Brendan peered at his son with naked suspicion. ‘Is it really you?'

The comment reminded Cal of how he must look: his face bloodied and bruised.

‘I'm all right, Dad,' he said, offering a smile. ‘What about you?'

‘Are all the doors closed?' Brendan wanted to know.

The doors? Yes.'

‘And the windows?'

‘Yes.'

Brendan nodded. ‘You're absolutely sure?'

‘I told you, yes. What's wrong, Dad?'

‘The rats.' said Brendan, his eyes scanning the landing behind Cal. ‘I heard them all night. They came up the stairs, they did. Sat at the top of the stairs. I heard them. Size of cats they were. They sat there waiting for me to come out.'

‘Well they're not here any longer.'

‘Got in through the fence. Off the embankment. Dozens of them.'

‘Why don't we go downstairs?' Cal suggested. ‘I can make you some breakfast.'

‘No. I'm not coming down. Not today.'

Then I'll make something and bring it up, shall I?' ‘If you like.' said Brendan.

As Cal started down the stairs again, he heard his father lock and bolt the door once more.

2

In the middle of the morning, a knock on the door. It was Mrs Vallance, whose house was opposite the Mooneys'.

‘I was just passing.' she said, this fact belied by the slippers on her feet. ‘I thought I'd see how your father was doing. He was very odd with the police, I heard. What did you do to your face?'

‘I'm all right.'

‘I had a very polite officer interview me.' .he woman said. ‘He asked me ...' she lowered her voice, ‘... if your father was unbalanced.'

Cal bit back a retort.

They wanted to talk to you too, of course.' she said.

‘Well I'm here now.' said Cal. ‘If they need me.'

‘My boy Raymond said he saw you on the railway. Running off, he said.'

‘Goodbye, Mrs Vallance.'

‘And he's got good eyes has Raymond.'

‘I said goodbye.' said Cal, and slammed the door in the woman's self-satisfied face.

3

Her visit was not the last of the day; several people called to see that all was well. There was clearly much gossip in the street about the Mooney household. Perhaps some bright spark had realized that it had been the centre of the previous day's drama.

Every time there was a knock on the door, Cal expected to see Shadwell on the step. But apparently the Salesman had more urgent concerns than finishing the job he'd begun in the ruins of Shearman's house. Or perhaps he was simply waiting for more propitious stars.

Then, just after noon, while Cal was out at the loft feeding the birds, the telephone rang.

He raced inside and snatched it up. Even before she spoke Cal knew it was Suzanna.

‘Where are you?'

She was breathless, and agitated.

‘We have to get out of the city, Cal. They're after us.'

‘Shadwell?'

‘Not just Shadwell. The police.'

‘Have you got the carpet?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well then tell me where you are. I'll come and -'

‘I can't. Not on the ‘phone.'

‘It's not tapped, for God's sake.'

‘Any bets?'

‘I have to see you,' he said, somewhere between a request and a demand.

‘Yes ...' she replied, her voice softening. ‘Yes, of course ...'

‘How?'

There was a long silence. Then she said: ‘Where you made your confession.'

‘What?'

‘You remember.'

He thought about it. What confession had he ever made to her? Oh yes: I love you. How could he have forgotten that?

‘Yes?' she said.

‘Yes. When?'

‘An hour.'

‘I'll be there.'

‘We don't have much time, Cal.'

He was going to tell her he knew that, but the line was already dead.

The ache in his bruised bones improved miraculously after the conversation; his step was light as he went upstairs to check on Brendan.

‘I have to go out for a while. Dad.' ‘Have you locked all the doors?' his father asked. ‘Yes, the house is locked and bolted. Nothing can get in. Is there anything else you need?' Brendan took a moment to consider the question. ‘I'd like some whisky,' he said finally. ‘Do we have any?'

‘In the book-case,' said the old man. ‘Behind the Dickens.' Til fetch it for you.'

He was sliding the bottle from its hiding place when the door-bell rang again. He was of half a mind not to answer it, but the visitor insisted.

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' he called upstairs; then opened the door.

The man in the dark glasses said: ‘Calhoun Mooney?' ‘Yes.'

‘My name's Inspector Hobart; this is Officer Richardson. We're here to ask you some questions.' ‘Right now?' said Cal. ‘I'm just about to go out.' ‘Urgent business?' said Hobart. Wiser to say no, Cal reasoned. ‘Not exactly,' he said.

Then you won't mind us taking up some time,' said Hobart, and the two of them were inside the house in seconds.

‘Close the door,' Hobart instructed his colleague. ‘You look flustered, Mooney. Have you got something to hide?' ‘Why should .... ? No.'

‘We're in possession of information to the contrary.' From above, Brendan called for his whisky. ‘Who's that?'

‘It's my father,' said Cal. ‘He wanted a drink.' Richardson plucked the bottle from Cal's hand and crossed to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Don't go up.' said Cal. ‘You'll frighten him.'

‘Nervous family.' Richardson remarked.

‘He's not been well,' said Cal.

‘My men are like lambs,' said Hobart. ‘As long as you're within the law.'

Again, Brendan's voice drifted down:

‘Cal? Who is it?'

‘Just someone who wants a word with me. Dad,' Cal said.

There was another answer in his throat, though. One which he swallowed unsaid. A truer answer.

It's the rats. Dad. They got in after all.