Dream London (17 page)

The Tale of India was a tarnished confection half way down the alley, one of several Indian restaurants, much poorer and more broken down than those on the street we had just left. A couple of tired pubs stood amongst them, together with something that looked like a church hall or community centre. I heard the sound of music coming from inside, and I tilted my head to listen.

“Isn’t that a brass band?” I said. “Funny, I haven’t heard one for ages...”

Or had I? I remembered the silver sound of the trumpet as I fell asleep last night. Anna practising her scales. The cornet, I should say. Anna had been keen to correct me.

We walked on, and I listened to the tattoo of the snare drum accompanying the band.

“Hold on, isn’t this Brick Lane?” I said. I felt the satisfaction a resident of Dream London does when they manage to stitch back together a little of the geography. “So this is where it got to!”

“It’s the bottom end of Brick Lane,” said Achmed. “The other end drifted off to Upton Park. Now, welcome to my humble business.”

He held open the door and ushered Mr Monagan and me into the restaurant.

I smelt curry, I saw red flock wallpaper, pink table cloths, golden decorated jugs, napkins folded into fans, wine glasses and menus in thick leather binders. It was a proper Indian restaurant, circa 1986.

A waiter dressed in black hurried up.

“Sirs, here is your table.”

There were poppadums waiting for us, together with a silver tray of dips: bright orange mango chutney, yoghurt, lime pickle and chopped onions in a bright red sauce.

Mr Monagan broke off the tiniest piece of poppadum and placed it in his mouth. His face was immediately transported to such heights of ecstasy I actually found myself worrying what the effect of the curry would be upon him.

Achmed sat down with us.

“Can I recommend the chicken tikka masala?” he said.

“I never had you down as a restaurant owner, Amit,” I said. It was funny that it had taken me that long to recognise him. Dream London seemed to change some people more than others.

“Ah! So you do know who I am! Well, I’m not a restaurateur. Or I wasn’t until six months ago. And it’s Achmed now, Captain Wedderburn. Dream London has its own roles in mind for all of us.”

The door to the restaurant swung open and we all looked towards it. The restaurant was long and thin; in old London style it was the front and back room of a terraced house knocked into one.

Two children stood there, a boy and girl of about ten years old, both dressed in long black coats concealing whatever they wore beneath. They both carried cases. Musical instrument cases.

“Not here,” said Amit. “In the hall. Over the road!”

The two of them nodded and turned to go.

“Hold it!” called Amit. “What did you tell your mother, Alison?”

The girl spoke with calm assurance.

“We said that we were going to the free jazz session at the Mill.”

“Good. Good girl.”

“Thank you, Mr Singh.”

The door swung shut.

“This is most excellent, Mr Achmed,” said Mr Monagan, taking another mouthful of poppadum. “Truly, you are an inspired restaurateur!”

“Not through choice.” said Achmed/Amit. “I used to be in the same line as Captain Wedderburn.”

“Then you must have been a generous man indeed! I have never known such a man as Captain Wedderburn! I count myself lucky to have met him.”

Amit looked from Mr Monagan to myself.

“Yeeees,” he said. “Well, Jim, Dream London likes its Asians to dress like this and run curry houses. How do you think I feel about this?”

“Delighted, I should imagine.”

“Hilarious as ever I see, Jim. Well, it’s because of these clothes that I’m helping you out. I got a message tonight saying you were on the way. I couldn’t believe it at first, but I suppose it makes a certain sort of sense. The outside world seems to have recruited a lot of us.”

“Have they, indeed?”

I broke off a piece of poppadum myself and spooned a little red onion over it. It tasted hot and acid, not particularly nice. I swallowed and poured myself a glass of water.

“What happened to you, Amit?”

Amit became serious.

“Have you heard of Daddio Clarke and the Macon Wailers?”

“Who hasn’t?” I looked at Mr Monagan, lost in a trance of ecstasy. “What do you know about the Daddio?” I asked, carefully.

“Very little,” said Achmed. “It’s strange, is it not, that no one had ever heard of him until Dream London began? His men swept all before them, including my humble little operation.”

“Have you met the Daddio?”

“No. He works through intermediaries. Have you seen inside the mouth of those people?” He shivered.

“I’ve seen one of his Quantifiers. And this little girl...”

“We met his Quantifiers. And there used to be an old woman. Evelyn Macaroons. She was evil...”

He broke off a piece of poppadum.

“I don’t think the Daddio comes from around here,” he said. “I think he came down the river, like so many others. That’s what my new employers suggest, anyway.”

“Your new employers?” I let the words hang in the air a moment. “And who would they be?”

“You think that the Americans are the only ones who have an interest in what is happening to Dream London? The Indian government has observers here as well, James. The Commonwealth left us with a route into this country, and here we are to exploit it.”

“You work for the Indian government?”

“Oh, come on Jim. Don’t act so surprised. You work for the Americans. We’ve all been gathered up, all the rogues and criminals. All of us with more charm than conscience. Dream London loves us, it changes us less than others. The outside world governments are fighting fire with fire.”

I suppose that made a certain sort of sense. Other countries would have sent spies into Dream London. But... “What do the Indian government hope to gain?”

“There are long forgotten cities within the subcontinent that lie choked by the jungles. What you westerners now call the rainforests, for it is racist to use the wrong name, is it not? There are those who have visited those long crumbled cities, where the monkeys now walk the streets and nest in the houses, and they have noted the towers that once soared up above the treetops and now lie in ruins on the jungle floor, and they note the similarity with Dream London, and they wonder, has this happened before? More to the point, will it happen again?”

“And that’s why you’re helping me?”

“Let us say for the moment that the American government’s aims are the same as those of the Indian government. And happily, for the moment, their wishes coincide with mine! So, I am here to help! What would you say, James, if I were to tell you I could get you up onto the Writing Floor?”

“What would it cost?” I asked.

“For you, James, no charge! Be grateful that I have someone who is in my debt who can perform that service. He was a useful man, until he went to pieces.”

“Who?”

“Rudolf Donati.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Not at all. Eat your meal and then we shall go and visit him.”

T
HE CURRY WAS
brightly coloured and gut churningly hot and as about authentic as Amit’s Indian dress. It popped and sizzled inside as we were led up the stairs at the back of the restaurant. The stairs began to spiral around themselves, the walls became circular.

“We’re climbing a tower,” said Mr Monagan, delightedly.

“Of course,” said Amit. “Rudolf is my prisoner, and where else would one keep a prisoner other than at the top of a tower?”

“I thought he worked for you,” I said. “He handled your accounts, didn’t he?”

“He still does. He tried to betray me, and so we took steps to ensure he couldn’t do that again.”

“What did you do?”

“Take a look for yourself,” said Amit, pushing open the door.

SIX

RUDOLF DONATI

R
UDOLF WAS A
man in pieces.

His head lay on the pillow of the great frayed four poster bed at the centre of the room. His legs stood by the side of the bed, ready to go, his heart beat on a white plate on the bedside table; a plate with the same willow pattern as the ones our curry had just been served on downstairs. His body hung in the wardrobe, clearly seen through the open door. His arms were folded in the centre of the bed.

All the parts of his body were connected by long, pulsing, purple cords.

“Hello,” said Rudolf, brown eyes turned towards the doorway.

“Rudolf Donati,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“You know him?” said Mr Monagan, in an awestruck voice. “Mister James! I think you know everyone.”

“Not quite everyone,” I said. “So, Rudolf. I’m guessing that the gambling got out of control again?”

Rudolf raised his eyebrows. I suppose that, just being a head, he had had to learn new ways to express himself.

“Not out of control, just an unlucky streak.” He waggled his eyebrows in the direction of Amit. “I got into debt with these gentlemen.”

“He tried to run away,” said Amit. “Now we have him by the balls.”

“He keeps them locked up in the cabinet over there,” said Rudolf. I followed the two purple threads that led from the body in the wardrobe to the cabinet in the corner and winced.

“Mr Donati worked in Angel Tower as an actuary,” said Amit. “He still has a lot of influence over the place.”

“An actuary!” I said. “How could you work there? Didn’t the numbers drive you mad?”

“Not if you understand what’s really happening up there,” said Rudolf. “Dream London isn’t a fantasy, Jim, it’s science fiction.”

“That’s enough of that,” said Amit. “They want to get Captain Wedderburn here up to the Writing Floor. You’re going to help them.”

“Sure I will,” said Rudolf. “Right after I’ve finished scratching my nose.”

“He thinks he’s funny,” said Amit.

“Humour is the only weapon I have in this position.”

“It’s a blunt weapon. Listen, Rudolf. I’m going to let you out for the day. Would you like that?”

“Aren’t you afraid he might just run away?” I said.

“Thanks, Jim!” said Rudolf. “Whose side are you on?”

“Don’t worry,” said Amit. “We’ll keep his liver and kidneys. He’ll have to come back here to be reattached to them. If he wants to go on living, that is.”

I frowned. “How did you learn to do all this?” I asked. “How did you learn to take a man apart?”

“From careful application to the writings in the public libraries and reading rooms,” said Amit. “From the scriptoriums and the bibliotechs that are opening all around the city. It’s amazing what you can find if you look hard enough amongst all the junk.”

“What junk?” said Mr Monagan.

“What junk? Have you read anything in this city, my orange friend?”

“I only arrived here yesterday.”

“Ah, then you won’t have had a chance to read all that second-rate poetry that people keep writing. Every word ever written in this city is copied down and distributed amongst the libraries and bookshops. Every note played on every instrument is written on manuscript and mixed in amongst the other sheet music. What better way to dilute the culture of our former world than by mixing it with the mediocrity of the masses?”

“No,” said Rudolf, in the weary voice of someone who had tried to explain this many times before. “You don’t understand, Amit. That’s not how it works. There’s no need for that, not when the 839
^th
floor is rewriting everything all the time. He’ll see that tomorrow if you let me take him there.” He nodded at me.

“But why?” I asked. “Why are they doing it?”

“I told you, this is science fiction,” said Rudolf. “Dream London is a place where the normal rules of the universe no longer apply. Angel Tower is the place where the rules are rewritten.” You could hear the frustration in his voice. “I’ve told Amit this many times.”

“And I think you’re wrong, Rudolf,” said Amit, in bored tones.

“I’m not. Your governments are all looking at this in the wrong way. You’re treating this as a fantasy. You see these towers rising up and you want to seize your swords and cut your way to the top, kill the dragon and free the princess!” His eyes were fixed on me now. “That’s the American way, isn’t it? Well, I’m telling you now: forget the towers, look at the parks!”

“What’s in the parks?” I asked, remembering the paths and roads I had seen from Bill’s satellite pictures. I thought of the glorious gold and white fairytale castle that Buckingham Palace had become...

“I don’t know what’s in the parks,” said Rudolf, rather weakly. “But that’s where you should be looking.”

Amit had had enough.

“Enough talking, Mr Donati. Now, I’m going to ask Mr Monagan and Captain Wedderburn to leave whilst I begin the process of putting you back together. Captain Wedderburn, where would you like to meet Mr Donati tomorrow?”

“How about at Angel Street station, seven thirty?”

“I’ll be there,” said Mr Donati. “Oh, and don’t wear that suit. Wear your your normal clothes. Your Captain Wedderburn clothes.”