Dream London (13 page)

“I...” I began, but he didn’t give me chance to speak.

“This way,” he said, and immediately plunged into the maze of desks and partitions without waiting to see if I was following. I jogged after him, hot and uncomfortable in my thick woollen suit. Collins led me past lines of similarly suited men, all sat at their desks adding up rows of figures by hand.

“What are they doing?” I asked. A man looked up at me and held a finger to his lips.

“Shhh!”

Collins led me deeper and deeper into gloom, further from the large windows in the far wall. We traversed a labyrinth of desks and metal filing cabinets slowly turning to wood. Bentwood hat stands, vacuum tubes that led up the ceiling. All around me there was the suck and pop of cylinders vanishing into the network. The gloom deepened, the desks become more crowded, the stacks of paper taller. Finally, we came to a tall desk crammed into a corner, half drowned in paper. A dull yellow electric bulb hung overhead: it seemed to cast more shadows than light. There was a stack of paper already piled upon the desk, a fountain pen at the side. The office had yet to return to paper and quills.

“Don’t I get a chair?” I asked.

The clerk gave a knowing smile.

“Not as a junior. Status is very important here in Angel Tower.
If
you work hard and show due merit, you
may
find yourself promoted to a position where your desk has a chair. Continue to show due diligence and you
might
find that you are awarded a desk closer to the window.”

“Oh.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pencil. He passed it to me with an unctuous smile, as if doing me a great favour.

“Of course, those people with an uncle working upstairs may find themselves progressing faster than others. Let’s hope they remember the people who made their life easier when they started.”

So that was the game. Life in Angel Tower was the same as life on the street. You eyed up those around you, deciding whether they were worth brown-nosing or shitting upon. Collins seemed to be playing it both ways with me. Well, a partial ally was better than none.

“I can see you’re the man to know, Collins,” I said.

“As office junior, you may call me
sir,
” said Collins. “You’ll find everyone else here has the same name. However, if you want to find me in the office you can ask for Collins. And if you want to buy me a port and lemon in the French Horn you may call me Benny. Now, as to your work.” At this he pointed to the desk. “You’ll be rationalising the numbers.”

“Numbers?” I said. “I thought I was supposed to be on the Writing Floor?”

The clerk snorted.

“Don’t we all? Who wouldn’t want to be on the 839
^th
floor with Miss Merchant as their secretary polishing the balls of their executive toy? However, before you dash up to the 839th, perhaps you could help us out down here on eight two nine? Do a little rationalisation?”

“Of course,” I said. “Of course...”

Collins placed a finger on a sheet of paper. Faint lines had been ruled across the sheet, and a random selection of numbers were written in columns.

“Let’s start with an easy one. See the eight? That factorises to four times two, see?”

He used the fountain pen to write, in blue ink, on the paper next to the eight. Now it read

8 = 4
x
2

“See? Now, the 17,666 is obviously an even number, so that will factorise, so we have...” He scribbled next to the number:

17,666 = 8833
x
2

“Does 8833 divide further?” I asked.

“No point making work for yourself,” said the clerk. “You’ve rationalised the number that you were given. You didn’t carry on with the one before, did you? Leave that to someone else. We want to keep ourselves in work, after all. Now, this is the special one... Look at the seventeen.”

“It doesn’t divide,” I said.

He looked at me, and his fat face wore an expression of something like sympathy.

“Think about it,” he prompted.

I frowned, and then the answer appeared in my head.

“Of course,” I said. “Seventeen is two times green.”

I smiled, took the pen from him, and wrote down the answer

17 =
э
x 2

I beamed, delighted that I had worked it out. And then I felt a sinking feeling.

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “It’s part of you now.”

“But what are we doing?”

“There are no prime numbers in Dream London,” said the clerk. “Or there won’t be in the future.”

I wasn’t listening properly. I was too busy counting up to ten in my head.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, green, nine, ten.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” I said to the clerk.

“And this place does?” he said. He patted me on the hand. “Better get on with your work.”

He walked off into the labyrinth, leaving me alone with the stack of paper.

I looked at the paper again. All those numbers.

4 was 2x2. That was easy enough. But what about 7? Half seven was 3½, but that wasn’t right, it was yellow, because 7 was yellow times 2.

I wrote that down.

7 = π x 2

I stared at the black marks on the cream paper. I knew that Dream London was changing the shape of the buildings, and I knew that the books were changing, I was used to that. I was used to the way that Dream London rewrote the words on the page. It even rewrote people’s behaviour. I had accepted that. People could be manipulated. Who knew that better than Captain Jim Wedderburn and his lovely girls?

But I didn’t realise that Dream London was changing the shape of the numbers as well. That gripped deep inside. It felt so wrong. This all felt
more
wrong.

I didn’t want to look at the page again. I didn’t want to see the numbers, to feel more of my head being rewritten in the language of Dream London, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes were drawn back to the sheet.

3 was red times two. I knew it. I had always known it...

I felt so wrong, as if I were being held upside down by my heels and swung over the abyss, but still I went on. 3.1415... how could such a number be? It couldn’t, that was the point. It was something else. Not a colour, but...

I don’t know what happened to me that morning. The next thing I remember is Collins shaking my elbow.

“Come on,” he said, “It’s time for your lunch.”

I gazed at him, trying to focus.

“Collins,” I said. “Has it been that long? I’ve been lost in...”

“It takes people like that the first time,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll soon get used to it.” His fat face showed something almost like sympathy.

“I feel like I’ve been away somewhere. Travelling for years...”

“Come on. Go and get some food inside you, you’ll soon feel better.”

I blinked and looked at the sheets of paper. A huge stack of sheets, all covered in my handwriting. Had I done that? I didn’t remember any of it.

“But...”

“Come on. You only have three-quarters of an hour.”

I blinked at him and felt my eyes fill with tears.

“Don’t make me come back,” I said. “Don’t make me do that again.”

He smiled, rather sadly.

“You’ll feel better after a glass of port. Come on.”

He took me by the elbow and led me from the room, through the labyrinth off towards the lift.

“I don’t want to come back,” I said.

“Shhh...”

I began to count out loud to ten.

“
One, red, two, blue, a feeling of setting out on a journey, three, a feeling of fulfilment, yellow, four, five, orange, six, cyan, seven, eight, green, nine, purple, ten.”

“Best not to think about it,” said Collins. “Come on. Here’s the stairs...”

FOUR

LOVELY CARLOTTA

A
T THE END
of a narrow corridor lined with stacks of paper, a set of plush red carpeted stairs led upwards. I climbed them in a daze, climbing from the smell of paper, dust and dryness into a savoury scented fairyland. Gold rococo furniture, fabulously patterned wallpaper, dark mirrors barely reflecting the light. And through it all, the smells. The dark smells of roast meat, the golden smells of crisp crackling, the strawberry scent of desert, the rich smell of wine and port and brandy and cigar smoke.

Alan was waiting for me at the entrance. He appeared to have just arrived himself.

“Welcome to the Executive Dining Room,” he said. “Don’t expect to lunch up here everyday.”

“I...” I began. Coming from the dry, dusty atmosphere of the mind downstairs to this sensual barrage was all too much. Another voice spoke up, and it seemed to be the voice of opulence itself.

“Alan, you old dog,” it said. “And who’s this?”

I turned to face the fattest man I had ever seen. His body was so wide it filled the red and gold corridor, his legs and head tiny in comparison. His face was jowly and shiny with sweat.

“This is my nephew, James. James, meet Oscar Sjöholm.”

He reached out a hand to shake mine, somewhere around the orbit of his enormous belly, and I walked around to shake it.

“Don’t look at me like that, young man,” laughed Oscar. “Dream London amplifies what’s already there! I always liked to eat. Now I can do so to a more glorious excess than I ever dreamed possible. Isn’t that wonderful?”

I couldn’t think what to say in reply, my mind too full of new numbers.

He punched my shoulder in a friendly way.

“What’s your vice then, me young buck? You’re like your uncle here, I’ll bet. A ladies man,” at that Oscar cast a sly glance at Alan, “... or so he tells us! What did you get up to last night, you old fox? Rutting like a good one! No woman is ever quite safe from you, I should think!”

Alan laughed a little too heartily.

“Hey, don’t you go leading my nephew astray...”

“There’ll be no embarrassing him if he’s like his uncle, I’ll be bound.” He elbowed me hard in the ribs. It says something about my state that I didn’t elbow him hard in the side in return. Not that he would have noticed. He was rubbing his hands together now in salacious delight. “Have you seen? Carlotta is serving today! You’re going to have trouble keeping your hands to yourself!” He punched Alan on the shoulder, laughing again.

I looked up and saw into the dining room proper, and I felt my mouth fall open. The room was obscene.

First there were the waitresses. Fat women, thin women, black women, white women, oriental women, all with their stocking tops showing, the suspenders running from under tiny frilled skirts. Breasts spilled from tight basques and bustieres in glorious plenty, the silky flourishing of their hair was tied back in pony tails, or put up in beehives, or simply left to hang down over their smooth shoulders. Their lips and nails were painted in sinful red or crimson or magenta. They bore trays of succulent meat, plump fruits, sticky sauces; carrying them to the tables where the expensively clothed executives sat.

For the most part the men appeared not to notice the women, accepting food with a courteous nod or wave of a hand whilst they proceeded with their conversations, but I caught the occasional sidelong glance into a deep cleavage that hovered by a sweaty red face as soup was ladled into a bowl, or an appreciative stare at the plump roundness of the derrière opposite as it squeezed past. The only man serving in the room was the wine waiter, a desiccated old gentleman in a dinner jacket who walked amongst the fruitful plenty, pointing out suggestions from the heavily bound wine list or uncorking bottles and pouring out a little to taste.

A Spanish looking woman came towards us, her dark hair pulled back severely, her hips swaying as she walked.

“Come this way, Mr Sinfield!”

As she turned round Alan reached out and pinched her backside, smiling at Oscar as he did so.

“You old dog!” laughed Oscar, elbowing him in the side. He winked at me. “See! You’ll have to watch your uncle!”

“Will you join my nephew and me?” asked Alan, but Oscar picked up on his tone.

“No. I can see you two have plenty to talk about! Besides which, the only dumplings I’m interested in are the ones served up in the stew! I shouldn’t want to cramp your style, Alan old man.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgement to the slender Asian lady who bade him follow, and he walked off in her wake, travelling through the tables like a moon threading an asteroid belt. Diners placed their hands on glasses of wine and water to prevent them being spilled as he jostled past.