Decay Inevitable

As he cut into Tim’s lead, Emma began to drop back. He called to her to wait by the river and she pulled up, her hands on her waist, as he dived into the alleyway that had borne Tim’s feet not twenty seconds before. He kept to claws of shade as a filthy shower of sleet began, moving from pillar to post, pylon to pergola as Tim flitted through the heavily peopled alleys, his hair flapping around his tiny head like an anemone. At a covered market, he slowed to walking pace and took some time to inspect the produce, all the while rubbing at his booty (his lunch, was it?) as if it were a cat in need of succour. The stalls here were thick with game, vegetables, and pulses. Spice jars emphasised the lack of colour all around. Dogs and ferrets chased each other through the forests of legs while customers argued the toss over a couple of coppers to pay for their cockles and bully beef. A basket of chickens tumbled across Sean’s path, causing him to veer into a scrum of elderly men drinking tarry wine from a huge moonshine jug. Their curses followed him deeper into the gloom. A sticky smell of hemp hung here, like fragranced steam in a sauna. Tim was dawdling now, stopping to chat to a woman selling beads and to take a small cup of strong, thick coffee with the neighbouring café owner. Tim had a swagger here that seemed ridiculous in such a reedy frame. When he pushed on into the bazaar, Sean hurried over to the bead seller and pretended to browse her wares for all of two seconds before:

“That man, just now. That man you were talking to. Who is he?”

The woman looked up at him from beneath a pair of eyelashes that must have been three inches long. A rat squirmed in and out of the folds of her clothes. Her breasts sometimes jiggled into view, small and brown as nuts. She smiled at him and showed off teeth that had been ground and patterned like tiny tablets of sculpted ivory.

“That was Mr Edge,” she said. “Alderley Edge. He’s very popular round these parts.” She rubbed her finger and thumb together. “He has big pockets.”

“Does he live near here?” Sean was getting anxious. He would lose Tim if he wasn’t careful.

“Yes. He has an apartment in the clipper.”

“The clipper?”

“Yes. A grounded boat in Frenzy Square. You won’t miss it, I promise you.”

“Nice rat,” Sean said, as the animal slid luxuriously into the woman’s cleavage and lounged there, twitching at him.

The market stalls thinned out. He emerged in a tunnel filled with fresh air but scant lighting. At the other end, a courtyard floored with large, terracotta tiles boasted a ship at its heart, listing heavily to the port side without any water to support it. Huge wooden stanchions supported its bulk and prevented it from tipping over any further. He saw a figure against one of the portholes, observing his approach. He wondered if Tim would recognise him as he clambered aboard, a wave of vertigo almost tipping him over as the freshly canted decks of the boat, the Flat Earth if the nameplate above the wheel were to be believed, spread out around him.

“Tim?” Sean called gently, thinking, Alderley Edge?

The door to one of the cabins had not been closed properly. Sean let himself in and found Tim sitting on a chair by the porthole, trying to get the cork out of a bottle of rum.

“Do you want a hand with that, Tim?”

Tim tossed the bottle to him. “I’d rather you called me Alderley. Or Mr. Edge. Yes, Mr. Edge would be best.”

He took two glasses from a leggy cupboard that had been customised to deal with the absurd angles and set them down on the table. Sean poured. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, taking one of the glasses and drinking deeply.

“Any question you ask, I could ask of you,” Tim parried.

“I’m here because a girl died. If we’re playing quid pro quo, then I believe it’s your turn.”

He was still the gawky, ponderous Tim when you got up close. But cleaner somehow. Sharper. None of the serous fluids that wept from his cavities, or rumbled in his chest were in evidence here. The boy was almost good-looking. He realised that this would be answer enough for his question, but Tim led him in a different direction.

“There’s gold in these hills,” he said. “Why should I tell you about it?”

“Smuggling?” Sean guessed.

The curl went from Tim’s lip. “How would you know about that?”

“Oh come on, it’s obvious. I’ve been with Vernon on his little trips around the Northwest. I’ve seen his hand-overs. The little parcels. What’s in them?”

“You don’t know?” The curl returned.

“I could make you tell me.”

“You have no power over me here,” he purred.

Sean reached out to grab Tim’s arm, but his fist squeezed the meat out of both ends until he was holding on to nothing. It was like trying to grasp water. Tim’s arm reattached itself as he watched.

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” Tim said. “See, you’re not the only one who knows Latin.”

“Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas regumque turres,” Sean said, enjoying the crease in Tim’s forehead.