Dream London (19 page)

He was a handsome man, now he was no longer in bits, with dark hair fading to grey and dark eyes. He wore a well tailored suit, with silver cufflinks and a silver ring on his right hand. I could just make out the stitch marks about his wrist where it had been reattached.

“Rudolf,” I said, sitting down next to him. “Do you really think we should draw attention to ourselves so?”

He laughed.

“Captain, you tried entering Angel Tower in disguise and look where that got you. You really think that whatever controls Angel Tower is not aware of you? You’re Captain Wedderburn, famous throughout half of Dream London.”

“Half?” I said, rather pleased with his comment, notwithstanding Anna’s earlier words.

“The bottom half.”

I looked up at Angel Tower, up past the point where glass and concrete turned to stone and wood, up beyond the point where the black dots of the birds circled the tower, up as high as I could to the vanishing peak, lost in a blue of morning so bright it hurt the eyes. The sky seemed deeper in Dream London.

“Do you think that whoever’s up there knows I’m coming?” I said.

“Of course they know,” laughed Rudolf. He drained the cup of espresso. “Oh, I shouldn’t drink this when so far from my kidneys, but a man has to live when he can. I so rarely get out nowadays.”

I ignored him.

“If they know, then what’s the point of all this?”

“Captain! Where are your manners? You’re not listening to me. Indulge me a little on my day out.”

Rudolf sipped at his coffee.

“All this subterfuge and running around in disguise,” he said, and he took another sip. “That’s old world thinking. The Cartel and the Americans, the Indians and the rest of them, they still think that you can conceal the inside. They don’t realise that in Dream London, the surface is all that there is! I keep telling them that, but they won’t listen. All this messing about in the towers. They should be heading to the parks!”

“You said that before. If that’s how you really feel, why don’t we go there now?”

“To do what? You wouldn’t even find a way in.”

Rudolf snapped his fingers, and a waiter in a long white apron approached.

“Three more espressos,” he said.

“Three espressos?” I said, but Rudolf simply smiled.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

“The right moment,” he said. “We won’t get on the Writing Floor by subterfuge, but by style.”

“What’s the point? You just said that the towers aren’t important.”

“I know that, but maybe this way you get to stick one on the Cartel. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I hate it when people use levers on me.”

He grinned, a brilliant white smile.

“Very good, Captain Wedderburn! That’s the thing about the dashing hero! He’s so easy to manipulate!”

“I thought I was a rogue.”

“Rogue, hero. What’s the difference? They both do things the common herd dare not. Ah! The coffee!”

The waiter placed three little cups on the table and Rudolf placed one finger to his lips. With his other hand he pulled something from his pocket. He dropped a little yellow pill into one of the cups.

“You should go to the Writing Floor, Captain Wedderburn,” said Rudolf, as if nothing had happened. “That’s the place where they are reshaping Dream London. I think that Bill and the rest will find what is happening there interesting.”

“Reshaping Dream London through the Writing Room? How?”

“Words, Captain Wedderburn. What is a magic spell but words? And that is the place where they write the words. Not that we are dealing with magic here, of course. I already told you that.”

He waved his hand to encompass the entire city.

“What you see here, Captain, is what you get when science is explained by artists! Something which looks beautiful, but doesn’t make any sense. Still, that’s the world that we chose.”

“I didn’t choose it,” I said.

I heard the sound of a guitar and my mood fell further. A young woman stepped forward, incredibly pretty, with blonde hair and an elfin face. She wore a simple green dress that only just reached her long, shapely legs. She began to sing in a breathless, little girl voice. A song about the past and simpler times.

“Ah, a guitar,” said Rudolf. “A street player! That’s how
they
defeat us, you know.
We
have been made into individuals, whereas
they
work together. That’s what they’re doing on the Writing Floor. Rewriting the words to make us value this sort of thing.”

“How do you know all this?”

Rudolf Donati rolled his eyes.

“You ask that, Captain Wedderburn, sitting there in that jacket, every inch the dashing military figure, and not at all like a man who barely avoided a dishonourable discharge? Captain, I learned long ago that a good-looking man in the right suit with a winning smile can get what he wants. All it takes is the ability to tell a story. I was an accountant, Captain Wedderburn. I rewrote the world through numbers. The world still had the same number of boats and trees and bottles of wine and loaves of bread after I had finished my calculations, and yet all of a sudden people found themselves broke, or suddenly rich. Dream London is much the same; it’s all about surface, and not about substance. Ah, here we go. This is the man that you want. Mr Hellebore! Over here!”

Mr Hellebore was a man dressed in a black suit just like any of the other businessmen who streamed towards Angel Tower. He came to an embarrassed halt before us.

“Excuse me, I don’t think that I...”

“Mr Hellebore,” said Rudolf. “So glad I caught you! Please, take a seat...”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in rather a hurry...”

“Captain, make him sit down.”

He was a lot smaller than I, and easily bullied. I pointed to him, pointed to the seat and gave him a look that showed just how puny I thought he was.

“You were asked to sit down,” I said in a low voice.

“Listen,” he said. “I don’t know what you...”

“Shut up.”

He swallowed hard and sat down on the seat. I’ve used that look before. It’s astonishing how easily most people are cowed.

One or two people cast a glance in our direction. When they caught sight of me they simply continued walking.

Rudolf Donati leant forward and gave a charming smile.

“Mr Hellebore. What is the word of the day?”

Mr Hellebore had turned red by now.

“The word of the day?” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rudolf pushed the third cup of espresso towards Mr Hellebore.

“We bought you a drink,” he said.

“I don’t want a drink!”

“Don’t be so rude!” I said. “Mr Donati has bought you a drink. Say thank you.”

“... thank you...”

He looked at me, a flush creeping up his face. I knew his type. Fussy, fully aware of his own importance, more than happy to bully those subordinate to him. If I was working for him, I had no doubt he would make the most of the situation. I felt little shame about picking on him. “Drink up, there’s a good boy.”

He picked up the cup and touched it to his lips. A monkey helping itself to sugar cubes on a nearby table saw this and began to laugh.

“Lovely,” said Mr Hellebore, quickly putting the cup down.

“And the rest!” I snarled.

He drained the rest of the espresso.

Rudolf beamed.

“Now,” he said. “I bought you a coffee, you owe me a favour. What’s the word of the day?”

“Is there a truth potion in here?”

Rudolf laughed.

“A truth potion? Why would I need a truth potion? I know everything and everyone. That’s my power! I know the word of the day. It’s lobsters!”

“Lobsters.” Mr Hellebore licked his lips. “Then why ask me? Why make me drink this coffee?”

“Because I didn’t want you to go to work today.”

Mr Hellebore stared at Rudolf. Then he belched. He hiccuped and he belched again.

“Have you poisoned me?” he said.

“No. Just given you a bad tummy. You’ll spend the rest of the day on the toilet.”

“You...” Mr Hellebore gulped and put a hand to his mouth. He retched.

“In there,” said the waiter, reappearing with the bill.

Mr Hellebore stumbled off, one hand to his mouth.

Rudolf Donati was counting out Dream London shillings onto the waiter’s tray.

“This should pay for the cleaning costs,” he said.

“I wish you wouldn’t use my café for this sort of thing,” said the waiter.

“Oh, Albert! You can’t tell me that no one else has ever thrown up in your bathroom before. Come on, I’ve tasted your pumpkin ravioli.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” said Albert, pocketing the shillings and walking away.

Rudolf turned to me and beamed his brilliant white smile.

“Well done, Captain. You make a great bully! Mr Hellebore was quite terrified.”

“I’m not a bully,” I said. “I was just playing the part Dream London gave me.”

Rudolf grinned.

“You sound like Amit. You can’t blame Dream London for all your faults, James. You brought them in with you. All the changes did was give them soil in which to grow. You’re a bully now and always have been, it’s just that you’re charming so you get away with it. But a bully you remain, nonetheless. You’re nothing but a bully and a pimp.”

“Take that back, Donati. I look after my girls.”

My voice was low, as it always is when I’m angry.

“Take that back? What does that mean? The words have been said. Okay. I take it back. You still heard what I said.”

“I’m not a bully.”

“Of course you are. That’s what a rogue is. You do things your way and bully other people into accepting it.”

“I’m...”

“You are. Don’t look at me like that, I was the same myself, only I didn’t use my muscles, I used my mind. I know that, because I know everything.”

“I’m not really like that...”

“Really? It’s on that fortune you carry round in your pocket and don’t look at. Like all bullies, you’re a coward at heart, aren’t you? You can’t face the future.”

I’d heard enough.

“One more word, Donati, and I’ll feel through your pockets and feed you one of your own pills. You know I’ll do it.”

“Oh, I do,” said Rudolf. “But you have more important things to do now. You know the word of the day. Go into Angel Tower and ride the lift up to the Writing Floor. You’ll be welcome there.”

“How? They’ll know I’m not Mr Hellebore.”

“So what? I told you, this is Dream London. The substance is unimportant. It’s all about the surface. That young woman playing the guitar is no good, but everyone loves her because she’s attractive and she’s singing from the heart. She’s labelled as authentic and that’s all that matters. Now, off you go. I have a day to enjoy before I go back to Amit Singh and my kidneys. Off you go to the Writing Floor. I’m heading to Moules’ for lunch, and then afterwards I may visit the Race Track. I hear the Giraffe handicap is being run this afternoon.”

I clenched my fists as I stared at the man, but I thought better of it. I turned and made my way to Angel Tower.

Walking through the entrance into the grand hall with the eye high above, I caught a glimpse of two people standing outside, watching me. A tall man with a little girl by his side. Honey Peppers had caught up with me again.

I waved to them through the glass front of the tower. They glared back at me.

I guessed the Daddio’s power didn’t extend into Angel Tower.

I rode the lift up to the 839
^th
floor.

T
HE SIGN HANGING
outside the Writing Floor was written in a particularly curly font. It read:

“      .       ,      .”

I pushed my way through the door and found myself in something like an old fashioned library. Books were laid out on the shelves, piled up on the floor. Posters decorated the walls, travel posters, posters for art galleries.

An old man sat behind a desk by the door.

“Word of the day?” he asked.

“Lobsters,” I replied.

“May I ask what business brings you here?”

“My name is Captain Wedderburn. I’ve been moved up here from the 829
^th
floor.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear anything about it.” He frowned. “Then again, I never do.” He looked over my shoulder.

“Miss Merchant! Miss Merchant, I have a Captain Wedderburn here. Says he’s been moved up here from the Numbers Floor.”

A young woman in a severe suit with an even more severe expression hurried up.

“Captain Wedderburn?” she said. She consulted the clipboard she held in her left arm. “Ah yes, here you are. I have your desk ready. If you’ll come this way...”

“Thank you, Miss Merchant,” I replied, hiding my surprise.

I followed her into the room, threading between the shelves and stacks of books. She wore a tight skirt, and she rolled her backside as she walked, fully aware, I’m sure, that I was watching it. She took me to a desk covered in scraps of paper. Leaflets, old tickets, ripped pages from notebooks: it looked as if someone had emptied a wastepaper basket onto the desk.

“Take your seat, Captain Wedderburn,” she said.

“You were expecting me?”

“Of course,” said Miss Merchant. “Your name is on the list.”

She showed me the clipboard, and there, sure enough, was my name: Captain James Wedderburn.

I sat down in the big leather chair, so much more comfortable than my workstation yesterday. Miss Merchant perched herself on a stool at the side of my desk. She picked up a notepad and pencil and sat there, poised, waiting for me to begin.

“What do I do?” I said.

“Pick up a piece of paper and start reading.”

I picked up one of the scraps of paper on the desk. It was a flyer for a concert.

“The Hot Tramps. Live at the Embassy, Thursday 12
^th
March. Tickets £8 on the door.”

I looked at Miss Merchant.

“No changes?” she suggested.

“No changes.”

She looked at a waste bin on the floor by the desk, and I dropped the flier into it.

I picked up a piece of pink card, an old underground ticket.

“Travelcard, Zones 1-4,” I read. And then, just like yesterday, down on the Numbers Floor, reality changed in my mind. “Dream London Omnibus,” I said. “2d.”