The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

Nisha stepped forward and ran her hand down over the window where the child’s cheek would be. Her eyes welled up and her pulse quickened. She rubbed her belly. She couldn’t find the words but she nodded.

“Thank you,” the child said without hearing a reply. “Thank you.”

Moomamu The Thinker

“Wait, please don’t hit me in the—”

“I just didn’t want to—”
 

“I—”

Smelly giant cats with thump-sticks beat Moomamu as he tried to speak. They pounded him from every angle. He’d refused to kill and it had offended them. The din of the crowd rode up and down like somebody somewhere was playing with the volume knob. He was pounded in and out of consciousness until he felt like he was going to die.
 

They didn’t use claws or sharp points, though. It didn’t matter. They still painted him in hues of purple and blue.
 

He remembered the crowd and he remembered being pulled by his feet along the dirt. He remembered being dragged past the other human. The lifeless eyes staring through him. He remembered being pulled into the trapdoor at the centre of the grounds and watching as the crowd disappeared above him.

And then nothing for a while.
 

“Pathetic-looking creature, don’t you agree, sire?” somebody spoke. It sounded like the shouting cat, Payton. The same booming voice, even in normal conversation.

Moomamu felt the cold stone floor against his face. He felt where the blood around his eyes had glued him down. His body ached and his skin felt tight where he’d swollen up. He coughed before looking up to the throne. A stone platform topped with a lush red cushion. Silk fabrics draped over it, covering the prince’s hairless body. The prince was looking at Moomamu with curiosity.
 

Moomamu tried to move but he felt his hands cuffed together. The skin sore where the metal scathed it. He coughed again and a tooth fell out of his mouth and made a
plink
as it hit the stone floor.
 

“I have your fish, sire,” somebody else spoke.
 

Moomamu didn’t recognise the voice. He looked to the platform to see the human servant. He was wearing simple trousers fashioned from white fabric and leather cuffs. A bald head and distended belly, but his arms and neck were wiry and malnourished. Moomamu noticed the servant’s eyes glance at his own before returning to the prince.

“Just put the tray down, Thethi,” the prince said.
 

The servant placed the tray of silver, open-mouthed fish on the prince’s platform before bowing and walking down the steps to the floor, and passed Moomamu. A draught of wind blew past Moomamu from the servant’s trousers. He would’ve been able to smell them if his nose hadn’t been blocked with his own dried blood.

“Well, what do we do with a human like this? String him up outside the walls of the keep and wait for the Father planet to come scoop him up? Or should we tie his legs up and cart him through the village? Maybe we simply pop him in the oven? Make a tasty pastry out of him? We could feed him to the town cats. They’d appreciate the gesture. Wouldn’t you agree, Payton?” the prince said.
 

“Why yes, sire, of course. Sooner the better if you ask me. Get him dead by tomorrow, at the latest. Humans shouldn’t be allowed to live for too long. They soon stink up the place. And we’ve already got the one smelly fucker on staff.”
 

Even with an audience of one, Payton embellished every word with the twisting and dancing of his paws.

“No no no, Payton,” the prince said as he dashed at one of the fishes from the tray and lifted it upwards, dangling the silver sliver above his mouth. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the Great Worming of Minu.”
 

“Prince Snuptah,” a voice said from behind Moomamu. He didn’t need to see the face to know who it belonged too. It was the alpha.

“Yes, Snuckems?” The prince dropped the fish into his mouth and gnashed on it, dropping bits of fin and tail out of the sides of his mouth.

“May I suggest a mauling? Perhaps the day after the worming? The cats of Minu are already disappointed with how the Scrapping Grounds ended with no clear victor. A good mauling will see them right.”

“Yes, I do agree,” the prince said. “I’ll even give you the honour of being the mauler yourself Snuckems, if you wish?”

“Yes, sire. I would appreciate that greatly.” Snuckems grinned at Moomamu.

“Then it is settled. Take him back to his cell for the time being.”
 

Moomamu tried to protest, but before he could murmur a word a great pain slammed into the back of his head and he went back to the darkness.

***

When Moomamu opened his eyes again he was back in the familiar cell. The same sliver of light beneath the door. The same cold damp air that had been rotting away his lungs. The same rags and the same skewer of meat awaiting him. Potentially his last meal. His hands were no longer in chains. He managed to hold one above him but it was too dark to see. He knew it was there, though. The dull ache was proof enough.
 

“Oh dear,” the voice said, the same one from before. The voice that belonged to nobody. “Look at the pickle you’ve got yourself in, Thinker.”

Moomamu tried to talk but he couldn’t even move his mouth. All he could manage was a moan.

“Why do you act as if the pain belongs to you?” the voice said. “Those aren’t your arms, your legs, lungs, skin. They’re just an outer layer. Just a hide you’re wearing.”
 

Moomamu dropped his hand to his chest. Regardless of what the voice said, he still felt the pain as if it were his own. He groaned again.

“I did tell you to kill,” the voice said. “I should leave you here, forget about you, leave you to your death.”

Moomamu’s chest rose and fell with each breath. Each time accompanied with wheezing. He tried to talk but nothing happened. He instantly regretted even trying as he heard the screeching of one of the holes in the walls opening surely to be followed by an attack with one of the thump-sticks. He didn’t feel like he could handle it at that moment. His body was already too sore.
 

A light fell through the hole and Moomamu saw a face. The white eyes and the bald head. It was the human servant. He was looking down at Moomamu.

“Human, I do not know from where you came. But on the battlefield. You had the opportunity to kill the other human and you didn’t. Why?” The human spoke with such horrible violence that he sounded scarier to Moomamu than the prince or his shouting cat, Payton. Each word dripped from his mouth like bile. “Speak now, or I will leave you to your fate.”

“Help,” Moomamu managed to say before coughing. He felt the spatter of blood and saliva spray his naked chest.
 

“The soldier you killed. His name was Ma'nakhtuf. He was a great warrior of our kingdom. The last person to use the star-door. He and several others were sent here to rescue those of us who remained. Long time ago … it didn’t work and the star-doors were kept shut.”
 

“Help me,” Moomamu said.

“Today is the great day of the Worming, and tomorrow, you will be taken to the centre of the town and you will be mauled. It will be a painful way to die and I would not wish it on the worst of my enemies. A thousand tiny cuts with the mauler’s claws. No single cut would kill you, but a thousand will end your life. You will die. No doubt. You will die.”

Moomamu felt a tear drop down his eye, along his cheek and to the bottom of his ear.

“I have been at the prince’s side since I was a child. Born into it. I grew up with him. My parents were their sides, their … servants, and so were my grandparents. But Ma'nakhtuf and a few others came. He and the others tried to save me, but he was caught, put into the Scrapping Grounds, where you beat him. There were others like him. All killed. Ripped to shreds by the fighting cats. Ma'nakhtuf was my only way home. You could have killed him.”

“No,” Moomamu said, “I couldn’t have.”

“I know … and that is why I will help you. I will unlock the star-door. The right one. Getting the key is easy. I will unlock the star-door. And this prison door. Prince Snuptah will be making the Walk of the Worming along the walls of Minu. You will be free to go back to our people.”

“Our people?” Moomamu tried to scoff but instantly regretted it as a sharp pain stabbed his ribs. “You should come.”
 

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe I can anymore. I don’t believe I would like it. The prince is good to me. Feeds me and keeps me clean. He has promised he will find a suitable feline for me. One that has taste for humans. I will wait for that.”

“Okay yeah, that sounds pretty disgusting.” Moomamu coughed. More blood and spit sprayed him. “Tell me more about the escaping thing.”

Moomamu lay back and fell in and out of sleep as he listened to the servant’s lullaby — a beautiful melody of escape and celestial doors. As he drifted into darkness, he smiled. Because it was all coming back to him. He would finally get to go back home. No, not home. Earth. He tried his best to remember the difference between the two.

Nisha Bhatia

“Some woman and her pet cat,” Dr Warwick said. “We believe that’s who killed the boy.”

He’d taken Nisha to a room adjacent to the windowed one, away from all of the children, away from the classrooms and lecture halls, and into a dark office space with a single computer. On the screen, Dr Warwick had pulled up a still image from a neighbourhood CCTV. A dark suburban cul-de-sac lit by streetlight. A black and white pixelated mess, but on the screen, even through the distortion, Nisha could see them: a woman wrapped in the chunkiest coat Nisha had come across following the largest cat she’d ever seen into an open house.
 

“Is that all you have?” Nisha said. “How can you be sure they did it?”

“We can’t,” Dr Warwick said. “But how can we risk not treating them like anything
but
killers? If they’re out there searching for indigo children and trying to kill them, then they need to be brought down, or brought in. I don’t know. We need to take them somewhere. We need to know why. There’s still so much of the indigo children we don’t understand. Maybe these people can shed some light.”
 

Dr Warwick clicked on the mouse of the computer and it zoomed into the woman’s face. She looked upset. Tired. Not like a killer. But still … what does a killer look like?

“Well, I don’t remember seeing anything like her in the visions.”

“Sure,” Dr Warwick said, shaking his head. Every time she mentioned visions she could see him recoil.

“So what’s the plan? How do you expect to find this woman?” Nisha said.
 

Dr Warwick’s phone rang. A simple ringtone, a TV show theme actually. No, it was the theme to
The Good Morning TV Show
with Nisha Bhatia —
her
TV show. Dr Warwick fake-coughed over the tone and answered the call.

“Yes?” he said.

Nisha looked at the woman on the screen again. Even inside the pixels she could see a woman doing something she didn’t want to do. But was she being forced to kill a child? The thought made Nisha feel sick. Though that could’ve been the hangover. She was unable to tell.

“What do you mean?” Dr Warwick said down the phone, his voice becoming irate.

 
She needed a drink. She remembered the bottle in her pocket. Vodka.

“Err … Miss Bhatia, she’s here,” Dr Warwick said, as he put his phone back in his pocket. “The woman’s here.”

He looked shifty. Avoided eye contact. Shrugged.

“What do you mean? Who’s here?” she said.

“The woman from the CCTV,” he said. “She’s upstairs.”

Luna Gajos

The building didn’t look much from the outside. A simple, old office building in Central London. Tucked away between the thousands of others. Pretty enough on the outside, but packed with printers, computers, and people doing banking work or creative design or whatever. Luna didn’t know anymore. But this seemed like more of the same gentrified nonsense.

The receptionist lifted his nose and peered down at Luna as she walked inside. His eyes seemed disgusted with her, and even more so as they made their way to the cat carrier. Gary, the grumpy thing with the scarred-up nose, was inside. It was his suggestion. There’d be fewer questions and staring eyes, he’d said.
 

The reception itself was a red carpet and brown desk sort of deal. A single slab of wood in front of a white door hiding on a white wall. The bald man with his geek-chic glasses looked over his computer screen at her. He had the rakish appeal of a theatre actor. A failed one who had put on some weight and lost his hair. The kind who blamed other people for his own shortcomings.
 

“Yes?” he said. “Can I help?”

“Is this One-fifty-one Old Royal Street?” she said.

“It is.”

Luna looked around. She didn’t see how it was possible, but this was the place. The address that Gary had given her. The one he’d gotten from his chip.

“Do you … have any children here?” she said. She tried to make it sound as natural as possible. Her cheeks felt flushed. She huffed. Unzipped her chunky coat.

“Children?” the man said.
 

“Yes.”

He wheeled his chair along his desk and picked up a phone handset. Dialled a few keys. A few rings and someone picked up.
 

“We’ve got a lady here asking about children,” he said. His bald head wrinkled as he said the words. “Yes, that’s right.”
 

Gary meowed in the cat carrier. He was getting heavier with every passing minute. Luna bent down and placed him by her feet. She noticed him looking out through a gap in the carrier. His eyes were wide. He looked nervous. He meowed again, this time louder. Nisha could smell the paint on the walls. Maybe a fresh coat. Usually in receptions you would get a floor plan on the wall — showing what’s on what floor. But here there was none.

“Oh,” the bald man said, clutching the plastic handset in his hand. “I see. Okay.” He grunted and put the phone down.