Free Looking for Jake by China Miéville Page B

Rippolson Road, all closed up, an unbroken terrace.
    Why did I not repackage all this stuff and send it on to Charles Melville, or take it to his house in person? The envelope wrongly sent to —ley Road was addressed to —ford Road. But there is no —ford Road in London. I have no idea how to find Charles.
    The other reason I hesitated was that Charles had begun to frighten me.
    The first few times I went walking, took photos secretively, I still thought as if I was witnessing some Oedipal drama. Reading and rereading the material, though, I realised that what Charles had done to Edgar was not the most important thing here. What was important was how he had done it.
    I have eaten and drunk at all the cafés on Plumstead High Street. Most are unremarkable, one or two are extremely bad, one or two very good. In each establishment I asked, after finishing my tea, whether the owner knew anyone called Charles Melville. I asked if they’d mind me putting up a little notice I’d written.
    â€˜Looking for CM’, it read. ‘I’ve some documents you mislaid — maps of the area etc. Complicated streets! Please contact:’ and then an anonymous email address I’d set up. I heard nothing.
    I’m finding it hard to work. These days I am very conscious of corners. I fix my eyes on an edge of brick (or concrete or stone), where another road meets the one I’m walking, and I try to remember if I’ve ever noticed it before. I look up suddenly as I pass, to catch out anything hurriedly occurring. I keep seeing furtive motions and snapping up my head at only a tree in wind or an opened window. My anxiety — perhaps I should honestly call it foreboding — remains.
    And if I ever did see anything more, what could I do? Probably we’re irrelevant to them. Most of us. Their motivations are unimaginable, as opaque as brickwork sphinxes’. If they consider us at all, I doubt they care what’s in our interests: I think it’s that indifference that breeds these fears I cannot calm, and makes me wonder what Charles has done.
    I say I heard nothing, after I put up my posters. That’s not quite accurate. In fact, on the 4th of April 2001, five months after that first package, a letter arrived for Charles Melville. Of course I opened it immediately.
    It was one page, handwritten, undated. I am looking at it now. It reads:
    Â 
    Dear Charles,
    Â 
    Where are you Charles?
    Â Â I don’t know if you know by now — I suspect you do — that you’ve been excommunicated. No one’s saying that you’re responsible for what happened to Edgar — no one can say that, it would be to admit far too much about what you’ve been doing — so they’ve got you on non-payment of subscriptions. Ridiculous, I know.
    Â Â I believe you’ve done it. I never thought you could — I never thought anyone could. Are there others there? Are you alone?
    Â Â Please, if ever you can, tell me. I want to know.
    Â 
    Â Â Your friend.
    Â 
    It was not the content of this letter but the envelope that so upset me. The letter, stamped and postmarked and delivered to my house, was addressed to ‘Charles Melville, Varmin Way’.
    This time, it’s hard to pretend the delivery is coincidence. Either the Royal Mail is showing unprecedented consistency in misdirection, or I am being targeted. And if the latter, I do not know by whom or what: by pranksters, the witnesses, their renegade, or their subjects. I am at the mercy of the senders, whether the letter came to me hand-delivered or by stranger ways.
    That is why I have published this material. I have no idea what my correspondents want from me. Maybe this is a test, and I’ve failed: maybe I was about to get a tap on the shoulder and a whispered invitation to join, maybe all this is the newcomer’s manual, but I don’t think so. I don’t know why I’ve been shown these