Shades of Grey (20 page)

As I listened to the story I stared out of the window. I could just make out the faint disc of a full moon rising through the trees of a distant hilltop. I shivered and pulled the covers over my head.

I
was awake before dawn. Unable to sleep, I leaned on an elbow and stared into the darkness. I couldn’t even tell if my eyes were open or shut. The darkness swirled about me like charcoal maggots in a coal cellar. I touched the hands on the bedside clock to confirm that it was near dawn, then heard the faint buzz of the first heliostat on auto-align toward the rising sun. Another started up, and then a third, and soon the air was filled with the cheery buzz of the clockwork chorus. This was joined by the birds whistling and chirruping the new day, and before long, as I stared into the inky blackness, the faintest glimmer of red punctured the curtain of darkness. It soon became a distinctive thin crescent, then a semicircle and very slowly sightfulness returned to my room. First the door frame bathed in the dim glow of deep red, then the room itself, slowly reassembling itself as the rays of the new day slowly crept about my small chamber, banishing the blackness.

I arose, washed my face and dressed in my Outdoor Adventure #9s, which consisted of long shorts, a safari shirt and stout footwear. I then trod carefully downstairs to make some tea. I hadn’t even gotten as far as the kitchen before the sun vanished behind heavy clouds and the room dropped to barely a single foot-candle above threshold. After bumping into the furniture several times in an effort to set breakfast, I gave up and fumbled my way to the settee in the corner of the kitchen.

I awoke to find that the day had brightened. Dad was dressed, and doing some work at the kitchen table.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile. “Who’s Rude Girl? You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“Did I mention any names?”

“No.”v

“Then I’m not sure.”

I had been dreaming. Jane and I were swimming together in a millpond-still lake at dawn. Water vapor had been rising off the surface, obscuring the shore and isolating us from the world. I had been telling jokes, and she had been laughing, even at the bad ones. We had been about to kiss when Constance had arrived, standing up in the prow of a rowboat, dressed in flowing red robes. She opened her mouth to say something when I woke up.

“You also mentioned something about a rabbit,” Dad added.

“It had gills and was nibbling our toes,” I said with a frown.

He laughed and asked me how I was. I touched the cut on my mouth where I had fallen on the wheelbarrow the night before. It was still sore, but a lot better, and I told him so.

“They didn’t find Travis,” he remarked.

“No,” I replied. “They rarely do.”

“You showed some grit,” he added, “and that’s a good thing—but don’t do it too near the prefects. You’ll only draw attention to yourself.”

I asked him what he meant by this but he simply shrugged, and I headed off to the town hall, as I still had time to grab some cooked breakfast.

I stopped at the post office on the way, and since shop hours were extended to make full use of seasonal daylight, it had been open for half an hour by the time I got there. It was tidy yet immeasurably ancient, but despite this, the original red paintwork was still tolerably bright.

“Are you
sure
you’re happy with this?” asked the telegram clerk as she stared at my poetical efforts. “It seems a bit, well,
rubbish
to me.”

She was a late-middle-aged woman who reminded me of my twice-widowed aunt Beryl. Very kind, but annoyingly straight talking.

“Constance isn’t looking for a husband who’s intellectually challenging,” I explained, trying to pretend that I had deliberately downplayed my skills.

“Just as well,” she replied, then, once she had counted up the words, added, “You could add three more Xs and it wouldn’t cost you any more.”

I thought for a moment and then declined, as I didn’t want Constance to think me too forward. Mrs. Blood then asked me to confirm line breaks before charging me an outrageous thirty-two cents. I suggested that this might be somewhat exorbitant, and she informed me that she’d waive the fee if I brought back a set of sugar tongs from Rusty Hill. I said I’d do my best, and she smiled sweetly and told me she’d tap my message down the line right away.

The town hall was as town halls generally are: spacious, and smelling of boiled cabbage and floor polish. I walked carefully around the prefect carpet that was set near the entrance, nodded respectfully to where the
Book of the Gone
was sited, then blinked in the relative gloom. Far away at the opposite end was the stage, framed rather delightfully by ornate plaster moldings. To one side were the kitchens, and to the other were large oak double doors, which would be the Council Chamber. This was strictly out-of-bounds, except for twenty minutes in a resident’s life: This was where they held the Ishihara.

I helped myself to some porridge and a bread roll with a regulation scoop of marmalade, then sat down opposite Tommo at one of the red-hued tables. The room was relatively empty as the early shift Greys would already have eaten, and most Chromatics rarely bothered to get out of bed unless it was their turn to do Boundary Patrol or something. I noticed Jane finishing her breakfast, but she didn’t look in my direction. Tommo was there, he told me, to keep me from falling into good company.

“Travis wasn’t found,” I said.

“He will be. Listen, are you going to pull a night stunt like that again? It makes the rest of us look bad when someone does something pointlessly worthy.”

“What if it had been you?” I returned, and Tommo simply shrugged.

“Tell me,” I said, “is there anyone living in our house except us? On the top floor, I mean.”

Tommo looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“You mean aside from the one we can’t talk about?”

I nodded.

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I thought I heard noises.”

But Tommo was no longer paying attention. He had pulled out a comb with lamentably few teeth and was hurriedly making himself look presentable.

“Spot check?” I asked.

“More important than that. Do me a favor, would you? Try to make yourself as unattractive as possible. It won’t be hard, I know—but do your best, hey?”

“What?”

“That,” he said, indicating a girl who had just walked in, “is the Lucy Ochre I was telling you about. Each time I see her she’s more gorgeous. But you know what I like most?”

“Her sense of humor in agreeing to see you?”

“No. Despite her father’s wholesale theft of village property, no charges were ever brought. She must be sitting on a fortune. And when you’re married, it’s share and share alike.”

“You’re just a huge romantic at heart, aren’t you?”

“If there’s cash involved, I’m anything you want me to be.”

I shook my head sadly, and switched my attention to Lucy, the daughter of the previous swatchman. She had long, wavy hair, was petite and pale and was looking around in a mildly confused manner. Dad and I had seen her the day before holding a pendulum down by the bridge. As soon as she looked in our direction Tommo waved, and she walked over in an unsteady manner.

“Hello, Timmo,” she said, sitting down.

“It’s
Tommo,
actually,” he corrected. “I thought you might like to sit with us, my dove.”

She stared at me for a moment.

“I could kill for a cup of tea.”

Tommo took the hint and dashed off.

“He wants to marry me,” she said, leaning on the tabletop for support and looking not
at
me, but just above my left eyebrow, “and Mother’s given me a free choice in the matter. Do you think I should?”

“He thinks you have money.”

She gave out a snort.

“We don’t have a bean.”

“Then probably not. I’m Eddie Russett, by the way.”

“The swatchman’s son?”

“That’s me.”

“You’re quite handsome—I like your nose especially.”

“It was a birthday present.”

“What else of interest did they give you?”

I decided to change the subject as she was being a little too forward.

“Tommo said you were searching for harmonic pathways.”

“The earth is
awash
with silent musical energy,” she replied in a dramatic tone, “in the rocks and ground, heath and fields. E-flat, if you’re interested, but high up the scale, so impossible to hear. It’s like an energy-bearing harmonic zephyr that channels along certain pathways, moving my pendulum as a breeze stirs wind chimes—an energy that binds all things together as one—a Harmony of the Spheres.”

I said nothing, which was probably quite revealing.

“I know,” she said with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. “That’s what everyone thinks. Would you like to give me a spoon?”

I started, taken aback at her forthright suggestion.

“Well, no, yes, I mean, that is to say—I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Dessert, soup, bouillon or tea—I don’t care which. From Rusty Hill. You are going there, I think?”

“Oh, a
spoon
. I thought you meant—”

“That I wanted to buy some youknow? Come on, Eddie, you’re not
that
handsome. But while we’re on the subject, are you any good at kissing? I need someone to practice with, and you look like you could do with the cash. If we cut Tommo out of the equation, we can save a small fortune.”

“How much kissing were you planning on doing?” I asked, thinking that a “small fortune” from 5 percent saved could mean enough to wear my lips out—and my tongue, too, if that’s what she had in mind.

She shrugged. “It depends on how good you are at it, I suppose. Friend?”

“Friend.”

“
Special
friend?”

“Let’s just stick to ‘friend’ for the time being.”

“Here’s your tea,” said Tommo, glaring at me since Lucy was almost sitting in my lap.

“No tea for me,” she said, eyelids drooping. “In fact, I could do with forty winks.” And as if to affirm this, she slumped onto the table and started snoring.

“Is she usually like this?” I asked, and Tommo shook his head sadly. The penny dropped. She was well and truly greened. And if the prefects got wind that Lucy had been seen limed in public, there would be serious trouble—not to mention all the wagging tongues.

“Hey, Lucy,” I said, shaking her shoulder, “it’s time for a walk.”

I instructed Tommo to grab an arm, and we heaved her to her feet. With much moaning and complaining, we escorted her from the hall.

“We need deMauve’s front door,” I said. “The lime that Lucy’s been peeking is the yellow side of green, so we need the red side of violet to counteract what’s charging around her noggin at present.”

“Does that work?”

“You don’t grow up in a swatcher’s house without learning a few tricks.”

Tommo needed no more persuasion, and we walked the increasingly unsteady Lucy toward the Prime Residences.

“Look at the door, Lucy,” I told her. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better,” she moaned. “They did him in, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“No one did anyone in,” explained Tommo. “It’s the color talking.” This was very possible. On the occasions when I’d arrived home to find Dad a bit limed, he’d spoken complete drivel, often without trousers, from atop the sideboard.

She stared at the door for a full minute, but we couldn’t see any improvement. I cursed as I realized
why
this wasn’t working—she’d had an eyeful of the hard stuff.

“She’s got hold of some Lincoln,” I said. “Red door—and hurry!” We dragged her across to Yewberry’s painfully bright front door, and told her to open her eyes. The effect was instantaneous, and dramatic. She gave a sharp cry, winced and held the back of her head as the pain of reverse discordance kicked in.

“Munsell’s
hoo-ha
!” she cried.

“Not so loud,” I said, “and give me one more look—of a count of at least five elephants.”

“Crud,” groaned Lucy as soon as she had counted off the elephants,

“are you usually bright yellow?”

“It’s just your visual cortex reconfiguring,” I explained. “It will soon clear.”

We took her home, and I let her flop in the window seat while Tommo went to fetch a glass of water.

“Ooh,” she mumbled, “my
head
.”

“Where’s the Lincoln?” I asked.

She stared at me unsteadily. Her eyes seemed to flick around my features before staring at me intently, but in a queer manner that brought disturbing memories of my mother, who’d had the same habit. I’d never thought of it before, but it was possible that my mother had
also
been something of a greener. Lucy closed her eyes and started to sob silently. I passed her my handkerchief, and she wiped away her tears.

“Where’s the Lincoln?” I asked again.

She thought for a moment, blew her nose and pointed to a copy of
Old Yeller
lying on a table nearby. I flicked through the pages and soon found what I was looking for. A blazingly bright swatch about the size of a picture postcard and of a green so powerful it seemed to fill the room with an infectious aura of dreamy happiness. I glanced at it and a warm sense of welcome torpidity momentarily washed over me.

“Five hundred demerits if you’d been caught with this,” I murmured, folding the swatch color side in. But instead of showing any remorse, she grabbed my wrist and stared at me intensely.

“
They killed my father!
”

“Lucy,” I said, “no one does the murder anymore. There’s no need. There are
procedures
.”