Un Lun Dun (51 page)

Deeba swallowed and nodded and hugged him again. She held her breath, and turned and ran to the edge of the bridge. There was a strain, an effort, a whining in the air, and Deeba felt a membrane split, somewhere in reality. The bridge dipped across the Odd. She ran towards the walkway by her front door, which she could see beyond the girders.

I dunno what might happen,
she thought, giddy, head spinning.
I could go back. I could live there, in a moil house with walls made out of wallets and windows made out of glasses. Or in a house like a goldfish bowl. I could catch a train from Manifest Station.

But right now…

She stepped off the bridge, and breathed deeply in the London night. She looked all around her. Curdle exhaled at her feet. Deeba smiled.

“Hush,” she told it. “And you.” She held up the rebrella. “Remember. Over on this side, when other people’re around, you stay still.”

She turned. The bridge still soared out across the estate. Standing near its edge, waving at her, were her friends. Joe Jones; Skool; Hemi the half-ghost, biting his lip; Bling and Cauldron, their bodies quite solid; and Obaday Fing, carrying the book.

Deeba blinked through tears and smiled. She raised her hand. The UnLondoners waved back. She and they looked across at each other, from city to abcity.

A cat yowled somewhere. Deeba glanced in its direction.

When she looked back, the Pons Absconditus was gone. Deeba stood alone on the concrete walkway, in the dark. In London.

Deeba gave a long, shaky sigh. She picked up Curdle, put it in her bag. She whispered to the rebrella: “Remember!”

Then she turned and unlocked her front door.

99

Memory

Deeba walked slowly through the living room. She was trembling. She heard voices from the kitchen.

She paused a moment, and looked at a photo on the mantel.

It was of her whole family. Deeba stared at it in horror. There was her mother, her father, her brother, smiling out…and there was she, but it was as if the film was underexposed in that corner of the picture. Or as if she stood in shadow. Or in fact, as if it was just hard to
notice
her there, smiling, her arms around her parents.

The picture was of four people, but it looked as if it was of three.

Her family were at the table eating supper. Deeba almost sobbed to see only three places set.

She walked in, looked at her parents and Hass, and brimmed with tears of relief, and nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to just run across the room to them, but she held back in fear, seeing their faces.

All three of them were staring at her blankly.

Her father had a fork halfway to his mouth. Food was dripping slowly off the metal tines. Her mother held a glass. Their faces were almost like voids. They looked slack, completely uncomprehending. Deeba saw a struggle deep inside each of them.

I was gone too long!
she thought desperately.
The phlegm effect’s gone permanent!

“Mum?” she whispered. “Dad? Hass?” They stared.

It’s only been eight days!
she thought.
Since I spoke to Dad, in the Talklands! But…
A coldness hit her stomach.
But it’s been more than nine since I
left.
Maybe it doesn’t do it, to phone. The time counts from when you’re gone. It’s too late…

“Mum? Dad? Hass?”

The Reshams quivered, and very slowly winced and blinked, and stared at Deeba, and something seemed to shudder and run through the room. One by one her family shivered as if at a chill, and they stretched their faces as if yawning, or shrugging something off.

“Can’t you sit down like a civilized person?” Mr. Resham said. It took several seconds before Deeba was sure he was speaking to her.

“What are you wearing?” Mrs. Resham said. “You funny girl.”

Deeba let out a little sob of relief and grabbed them both, and hugged them harder than she ever had before.

“Mad girl!” her father said. “You’re spilling my rice!” He laughed.

Deeba hugged Hass, too. He looked at her suspiciously.

“What?” he said. “I drew a picture.”

It took Deeba a few moments to convince her mum and dad that though, yes, she was crying, she was very happy.

“I’m just going over to Zanna’s for a minute,” Deeba said as the Reshams picked at the last of their dinner. Deeba did so too, her father having wordlessly got her a plate and cutlery, a faint quizzical look on his face when she sat down.

“You…” her mother said. “You think I can’t see through this shameless attempt to get out of clearing up dishes?”

“Oh, please. Just for a second. I need to…give her something for school.”

Deeba grew more and more nervous the whole short distance to Zanna’s. She had to clench and unclench her hand to stop it shaking before she rang the doorbell.

It was Zanna herself who opened the door. Deeba stared at her, dumb, her mouth open. It felt like years since she had seen that familiar blond-fringed face.

For an instant, a cloud of confusion passed over Zanna’s expression. Then she smiled and stood up straighter, looking fresher and better than anytime since she had returned from her own, unremembered, trip to the abcity.

“Hey Deebs,” she said. There was no trace of debilitating breathlessness left in her voice—her lungs sounded completely clear. “Man,” she said, “you look
happy.
So…you been doing anything interesting? What? What’s so funny? Why you laughing?”

Much later, when Deeba crept out of bed and looked at the photograph of her family again, while everyone else was asleep and she was basking in having her house around her, the light in the picture had altered. Deeba’s image was properly visible, and there were four Reshams again.

It was beyond extraordinary that she had only a few hours previously been in UnLondon, a place so far away from her bedroom that conventional measures of distance were meaningless. She thought, carefully and precisely, of all her friends in turn: Obaday, Jones, the book, the utterlings, Hemi the half-ghost.

She missed it already, she realized.
It’ll always be me got rid of the Smog,
she thought. She felt the lack of UnLondon like a loss.

But at the same time, she couldn’t remember being so happy as she was then, at that moment, luxuriating under her duvet, in her room, with her family close, and her image back and visible on the photos in the living room. She felt as if she glowed with contentment.

Deeba whispered to Curdle, which was making a nest under her bed. Before she turned out her light, Deeba checked her diary. She had an appointment coming up.

EPILOGUE

In the heart of Westminster, in the sumptuous, wood-paneled office of Elizabeth Rawley, secretary of state for Environment, it was an unexceptional morning. The minister worked through the pile of papers on her desk, checking reports, making notes and suggestions, preparing press releases.

There was a personal note from the prime minister. He was extremely pleased with the success of LURCH, the London-UnLondon Rerouting Carbon Hazards plan. Carcinogens and toxic pollution were down across the southeast, the ratings from environmentalists were up, and the government had established an invaluable relationship with a very powerful ally.

The prime minister was already raising the possibility of deploying their contact in various trouble spots. “A chemical weapon that can strategize like a general,” he’d said. “Hidden among oil fires! Think of it, Elizabeth!”

She did think of it. She was very proud of her initiative. She didn’t want to count her chickens, but she was hearing whispers of promotion. She eyed a door on her far wall.

Rawley only hoped the PM didn’t find out that communications had dried up since just after Murgatroyd had made his way back in a half-crippled police burrower, cursing.

Her intercom buzzed.

“Minister,” her secretary said. “There’s someone to see you.”

“There’s nothing scheduled…”

“She came in the public entrance, Minister. She won’t give her name, but she’s insisting on seeing you.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t be ridiculous.”

“She says she can tell you what’s going on in…in the
other city
. She said you’d know what she means.” Her secretary sounded nonplussed. “But only if you saw her now. I’m sorry, Minister, she wouldn’t be more specific. She insisted I tell you. She said something about chimneys, and a war, and—”

“That’s enough.” Rawley spoke quickly. “Send her in.” She pressed another button. “Murgatroyd, for God’s sake get in here. We’ve finally got contact.”

Murgatroyd entered from his adjoining office, accompanied by secret service men with pistols out and ready: standard procedure when dealing with the abcities.

After a moment, the main doors opened, and a short, dark, round-faced girl with an extremely determined expression entered. She was carrying a red umbrella.

Elizabeth Rawley stared at her. The girl eyed her back.

Murgatroyed emitted a strangled sound. “You!” he screamed. He pointed with crooked fingers. The girl held up a hand and looked at her watch.

“Was hoping we’d catch you,” she said. “Ten seconds.” After a moment, she said, “Five.”

It was that many seconds to nine o’clock.

An alarm bell sounded. The noise of machinery began to approach. In the corner of the room, a red light came on.

The elevator hadn’t worked for days. The noise of gears came closer.

There was a
bing
as the lift crossed through the membrane between worlds, and arrived. The door opened. “Hey, you lot!” the girl called happily. “You cleared the elevator shaft! I knew you could.”

Elizabeth Rawley stared.

Stepping out of the elevator came a big man in an antiquated London Transport uniform. He wore a conductor’s ticket machine and carried a copper rod. Beside him was a man wearing printed paper, with needles and pins for hair.

There was a boy with them, a pale boy in flickering clothes. And leaping out from behind them…Was that a
dustbin
? With arms and legs? And stern eyes glinting from under its lid?

Rawley took it all in.

Murgatroyd drew his gun and aimed it at the girl. There was a shot, and the
ping
of a ricochet. The girl held her umbrella before her.

The agents raised their pistols. The conductor leapt out with a flurry of fists and feet, and the sound of crackling and bursts of sparks. Bodyguards tumbled to the floor unconscious. The dustbin somersaulted and, with a frenetic succession of windmill kicks, laid out a line of men and women.

The girl spun her umbrella so fast it looked as if it were the umbrella pulling her. She smacked weapons effortlessly out of several agents’ hands.

Elizabeth Rawley stared in shock. In less than three seconds, most of her staff were incapacitated.

“I’ll kill you!” Murgatroyd spat, and fired again.

The girl spun, and blocked with the umbrella, then swung like a truncheon. It caught Murgatroyd under his chin, and sent him soaring. He sailed backwards, over Rawley’s desk, crashed into the wall behind her, and slid to the floor, groaning.

The dustbin handsprung over Rawley’s desk and stood with one foot on Murgatroyd. The conductor stood poised, ready to strike. The boy and the pin-headed man ran to the door, checked it, and wedged it closed.

The girl stepped closer and stared into the minister’s eyes. She jumped up and landed on the desk. She twirled the umbrella, stretched like a fencer with it pointed directly at Rawley’s throat.

“Minister,” said the girl. “We need to talk.”