Dream London (34 page)

I
STRUCK OUT
at random through the maze of streets surrounding Hayling Street. It didn’t really matter where I went, all I had to do was to speak to as many people as possible.

I had the opportunity almost immediately: four men stood outside a pub, drinking a mid-morning glass of porter. Despite the heat, they had burgundy and silver scarves knotted around their necks.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “How are the Hammers going to do tonight?”

The men looked me up and down suspiciously.

“You’d be Captain James Wedderburn,” said one of them. “How’s your arse? Full of monkey spunk, I heard.”

“You heard wrong,” I said easily, “and I’m willing to fight you if you wish to disagree.”

“No need for that,” he said, hurriedly. “No sense in listening to rumours on such a lovely day. How about I buy you a drink? The porter here in the Three Crows is rather fine today.”

As if on queue three shiny brown barrels descended from the sky, lowered from one of the distant Dockland cranes into the back yard of the ale house. We looked along the length of the line to the distant boom of the crane, high above. Birds swooped and soared around it.

“No thank you,” I said. “I haven’t got time. I need to prepare for the Snakes and Ladders Square party. What time are you arriving?”

The men looked at each other.

“The Snakes and Ladders Square party?” said one, bluffing wildly. “Wasn’t that tomorrow at ten...?”

“No! Tonight at sundown. I changed the date. Don’t forget, the girls aren’t charging and the first drink is on Captain Wedderburn.”

“Sundown, eh? We can call in there after the match. We should be there celebrating, I think. Eh, lads?”

The other men cheered.

“So I’ll see you then, okay lads?”

“Maybe you will.”

“Which side do you support?” asked one of the men.

“The same side as I always do,” I replied. “The winning one.” I waved them farewell and walked off down the road.

There were little shops all around here, specialist shops catering to all sorts of people. Shops of all sizes, pushed together, single item shops selling nothing but razors, or caged birds, or walking sticks, or polished stones, or scrolls, or umbrellas, or beetles. One of them caught my eye and another idea occurred to me. Another way to recruit support. I pushed my way into its bright interior. Thousands of Captain Wedderburns looked down at me, turned their backs on me, looked off in other directions.

“Yes sir,” said the little man sitting behind the tall desk.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m afraid I need to steal a small mirror off of you.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir,” he said, reaching beneath the table, “but I’m armed. You are standing in the focus of all my mirrors. I press this switch and I open a hatch that will allow the ingress of the sun. Happily, my mirrors are arranged to direct its full glare upon you.”

I looked around the mirrors, in gilt frames, iron, glass, wood, jewelled, polished, bevelled, plain, decorated.

“You’re lying,” I decided. “But I have to hand it to you. You’ve got guts. More than most people in this city.”

“Fucking twats, the lot of them,” agreed the little man. He pointed to a little mirror by my side. “Take that one over there, and I wish you every bit of bad luck I can.”

“If I had money I’d pay you.”

“If I had a gun I’d shoot you.”

I’m sure he was telling the truth. The man was clearly disturbed, no doubt the effect of sitting in here watching himself all day. A man who knew himself too well was liable to go off the rails. After all, it had almost happened to me earlier that day.

“Listen,” I said, stuffing the mirror in my pocket. “I’m raising an army. If you want to do something to help, be in Snakes and Ladders Square at sundown. I could use a man like you.”

“Isn’t that where the party will be?”

I was surprised to see that my rumour had reached the shop before me, but that’s Dream London for you.

“That’s the place. All the whores you can handle.”

“I can only manage one at a time,” he said. “But I can still give a good account of myself.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I’ll see you there, then.”

Outside, the afternoon sun was bright and yellow and way too big. I pointed the mirror to the sky and flickered it back and forth, signalling the satellite. They had seen my message about the Contract Floor. I hoped they would still pay attention to me.

T
HE SUN ROLLED
up the morning sky and down the afternoon. I walked the streets, passing news of my fictitious party to whoever I met.

The shops thinned, and I made my way through a section of porcelain-faced houses. Squat towers like sail-less windmills peeped over the surrounding houses, gazing at me with blank windows. I was thinking about giving up on this area and seeking out one more populous when I saw a crowd of people ahead of me. I hurried towards it.

“What’s going on?” I asked a man in ragged grey overalls.

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes cast down to the ground. “We were told to come and wait here. We’re being transferred to another workhouse.”

Now he said it, it was obvious who these people were. The downcast glances, the air of shame, the loss of pride. These were Dream London’s outcasts, the dispossessed, the forgotten. Imprisoned these past few months behind the grey walls of the workhouses, they had been stripped of their few remaining possessions, their dignity, their last vestiges of any fight. The men and women stood separately, the children hanging on to the grey skirts of their mothers, pale faces turned away from the sun.

“Who’s in charge here?” I asked.

“Master Hodgson,” said the man, nodding.

Master Hodgson was dressed in shabby leather breeches and a frilled white shirt. He looked like a cut price copy of the man Captain Wedderburn would have become, had he not given up his former ways.

“Good day,” I said, nodding.

“Good day.” Master Hodgson eyed me with caution. I recognised his type. He was deciding whether to be bully or sycophant. I helped him to decide.

“What are these people doing here in my street?” I demanded.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, touching his forehead. “Master’s orders. These are the inmates of Greendock Workhouse. They’re being transferred to another world.”

“Another world?” I said. “Explain yourself, man!”

“The parks are opening,” said the man. “We were told to be ready at sundown.”

Now I noticed the railings he stood by. I had thought that we were standing near a stretch of wasteland, brambles tangling at the fence that bordered the street. And perhaps this morning we would have been. But now I came to look, I saw the way the railings seemed to be coming to life. The metal at the top was old and rusted, but down at the ground the railings seemed to burst with green painted newness.

“The parks are coming through,” said Master Hodgson. “They’re breaking into Dream London.”

“And what do you think will be waiting in the parks?” I asked.

“Who can say, sir? New employers, waiting to take these people into their service. That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“And you’d hand these people over to whoever is waiting through there, would you?”

“Just doing my job, sir. Just doing my job.”

His expression was one of complacency.

“If you were half a man you’d let them go, rather than force them through there.”

“Let them go where?” asked Master Hodgson. A grin formed on his face, the nasty little smile of someone who thought he was about to do something clever. He turned around to his charges. “Hey, Lightfoot!” he called. “You’re free. Off you go.”

“Go where?” said Lightfoot, eyes downcast with shame. “Where should I live? What would I eat?”

“Go to Snakes and Ladders Square!” I said. “There’s going to be a huge party there at sundown. Free beer and women!”

“And after that?” said Lightfoot. “Where shall I go then?”

“Well...”

Hodgson looked back at me in petty delight.

“There’s thirty-six of them here, sir. I’d be happy to hand them over to you if you feel you can look after them. You know, feed them, clothe them. Make sure the little kiddies have somewhere to sleep.”

“Yes, but...”

He grinned, and a little bit more of the bully reasserted itself.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer to leave this to people who can actually do something? It’s all very well to talk about helping the poor,
Sir
. It’s only those that have the money that can actually do something though, isn’t it?”

I gazed coldly at the man.

“There’s no need to look at me like that. I was only speaking the truth. Or do you disagree?”

There was more to it than that, I was sure, but I couldn’t think what else to say. In the end I settled for calling out to the crowd.

“Listen, you people. There’s going to be a party at sundown in Snakes and Ladders Square. Come there if you can! We could change Dream London!”

A few of them looked at me, most of them looked away.

I took a last look at the fresh green paint that rose further up the railings, and then I was on my way.

I
WALKED ON
into the evening. In the past few days I had sought privacy and the streets of Dream London had been full. Now I was actively seeking people the streets were nearly empty. The few people I saw were always in the distance, hurrying away on their own business, and I wondered if somehow Angel Tower was seeking to frustrate me. At around six o’clock I emerged into a leaf-blown square.

A square of tall narrow houses. Dried leaves danced in circles; they filled the narrow spaces outside the downstairs flats, leaving the occupants with half-drowned views of the world, they clung fluttering to the iron railings that lined the spaces before the buildings. They lapped the bottom of the wide flight of steps that ascended from the far side of the square to the doorway of a large church. A group of people stood on the steps. Tramps, waiting for hot soup to be served from a little trolley. The smell of the soup set my stomach rumbling and I was about to turn around and walk away, but someone noted my distress.

“Sit down, mister. Sit down here a moment and take a rest.”

The man who spoke wore a long beard and trilby hat. His clothes were old and worn, but they looked to have been of fine quality once upon a time.

I felt so tired I slumped down on the steps next to him.

“Would you like some soup?” he said. He had a lovely voice, one that put me in mind of some old academic.

“No, please. Keep it away from me.”

The man looked at me wisely.

“You could always suck on a pebble. It’s said to help.”

“Thank you,” I said drily. “If I see a suitable one I’ll be sure to try it.”

The man laughed. I sat back and looked up the steps at the building that sat at the top.

“Does it seem familiar to you?” asked the man.

I shook my head. I felt so tired, so exhausted.

“It’s St. Paul’s Cathedral,” said the man. “A lot smaller, it’s true, and the dome has almost gone, but that’s St Paul’s Cathedral.”

I stared at building. Now I looked it did seem vaguely familiar, but not like St Paul’s. More like the church of my childhood, the one my mother had forced me to attend. It had the same shabby doors, the same noticeboard on the wall by the side of the door with the bright cheap posters pasted one on top of the other.

“It doesn’t look like St Paul’s,” I said.

“Oh, but it is,” said the man. “I should know. I’ve followed it through the city this past year. Watched it as it shrank and shed parts. Watched the dome as it turned to a pyramid, and then into a steeple. I’ve slept on these steps every night so that it can’t slip away from me.”

“Slept on the steps? Why?”

“Because Dream London mixes up our heritage and cuts us off from the past. Buildings drift and are shuffled, roads are tangled and unwound, bridges change direction overnight. If I hadn’t followed it, this building would be lost by now, just another shabby ex-church lost in the city.”

I stared at the man.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that I haven’t met many people in this city who think about more than their balls or their belly.”

The man shrugged.

I looked at him, searching his face for signs of understanding.

“I’m raising an army,” I said. “I’m trying to overthrow Dream London.”

“Good idea. Where do we muster?”

“Snakes and Ladders Square.”

“When?”

“At sundown.”

The man laughed.

“You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?”

“Better late than never.”

The man laughed again.

“Well, good luck with that. I won’t be coming myself, but if I meet anyone in the next couple of hours who I think might be interested, I’ll be sure to tell them.”

I laughed.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I looked back up at the shrunken shell of St Paul’s.

“I don’t think so. It’s been good just to take a rest.”

“Can I give you some advice?” said the man.

“Please do.”

“You’re going into battle tonight. You need to prepare yourself.”

“What do you suggest?”

“A wash and a change of clothes at the very least.”

“That would be nice. How do you suggest I do this?”

“See the street over there? Papillon Street? Half way down there is a blue door. The lady there is most obliging. Tell her that Crispin Welander sent you.”

All of a sudden, a bath was just what I needed.

“It’s very tempting,” I said, “but I can’t just knock on someone’s door and ask for a bath.”

“I think you can,” said Crispin. “You see, I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.”

“What do you mean.”

Crispin pulled open his jacket. I saw a yellow scroll of parchment tucked into the inside pocket.

“You too?” I said.

“I don’t believe in fortunes,” said Crispin, apologetically. “Unfortunately, they seem to believe in me.”

I
LEFT THE
square and walked down Papillon Street. The houses here had an air of fading prosperity. The large front doors bore two or three bell pushes, indicating that the interiors had been split into flats. The air felt still, there was no sound, and I felt very much alone. No, not quite alone. A ginger cat sat watching me from a window ledge.