“And help your friend,” said the Unbrellissimo.
Curdle came rolling out of the shadows and leapt up into Deeba’s arms. The little carton nuzzled up to her.
“Sorry Curdle,” she whispered. “But I can’t take you.” The carton whined. “You wouldn’t like it. You’d get thrown out, by mistake. End up in a dump. Or burnt.”
Curdle forlornly shook its opening.
“No,” said Deeba. “You have to stay.” She looked around for the most responsible-seeming person on the bridge. “Lectern…thank you for everything. And…would you look after it?”
Lectern looked surprised.
“Of course,” she said after a moment, and took the carton. Curdle made a sound like whimpering.
“Be good,” Deeba said.
“Remember,” said Brokkenbroll quietly, crouching by Deeba’s side. “We don’t know what state this’ll leave the Shwazzy in. Treat her gently. Give her no shocks. Don’t force her to think about things she’s not ready to.
“Mortar?” he said, and tapped his wrist. “If you would?”
Mortar beckoned Deeba. As gently as she could, she wheeled Zanna towards the end of the bridge.
She turned and waved. Lectern, Obaday, Jones and Skool, and even one or two of the binja waved back. Curdle was trying to pull away from Lectern’s hands and follow Deeba.
“The farther from one end to the other, the harder,” Mortar said. “And to stretch from UnLondon to London is a very long way indeed, across the Odd. We’re going to have to tap into a lot of energy.”
In the distance, Deeba could see the UnLondon-I speed up. The colossal waterwheel turned faster and faster, churning the Smeath into a froth.
“This is going to take it out of me,” Mortar said.
The end of the bridge was close. The strange UnLondon streets were only a few steps away now. “Hold on…” said Mortar. He had a nosebleed.
“It’s hurting you!” Deeba said.
“Just…a bit…farther…” Mortar said, his teeth gritted.
The whine of the spinning waterwheel sounded dangerous now, and Deeba was about to insist that they stop, and there was something funny about the streets ahead; then Mortar did stop, and pointed violently and suddenly, and Deeba stumbled forward, shoving the wheelbarrow off the end of the bridge—
—and into her estate. Onto the walkway on the first floor, next to her front door.
In London.
The moon was shining down through clouds. Somewhere nearby a cat called out; then silence returned. The windows around Deeba were dark.
Jutting from the walkway behind her was the Pons Absconditus. It arched out over the yard of the estate. She couldn’t see its other end. Mortar stood on it, raised his hand.
From somewhere, there was the noise of scattering bottles. Deeba turned for a moment, and when she looked back the bridge was gone.
She stood still for a long time.
Eventually she unlocked her front door. She pushed it open with her right hand, wearing the glove made from the book. She stepped over the threshold into her house.
“Mum, Dad,” she said quietly. She half expected them to be up, waiting for her, agonizing. The sitting-room light was off, though. She could hear the gentle breathing from their bedroom, where they were sleeping.
As silently as she could, she wheeled Zanna through to her bedroom, and put her gently in the camp bed. Then she took the wheelbarrow back out, and deserted it on the walkway, where everyone would think it was someone else’s. Maybe it would even seep back to UnLondon.
Back in the flat, a light had come on in her little brother’s bedroom. Hass came out in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes. When he saw her, he stopped, and gawped at her stupidly for several seconds. Then he shivered, and blinked.
“Hello Deeba,” he said sleepily. He went into the bathroom and peed with the door open. “Why are you dressed?” he said on his way back to his bedroom. “I had a dream about spaghetti.” He turned his light off and got back into bed.
Deeba scratched her head and furrowed her brow. She sat up on her bed, stroked her unconscious friend’s forehead, and watched the clock.
“You can stop worrying, everyone,” she whispered, forlorn and confused. “I’m back.”
31
Clearing the Air
As the minutes went by and the sky stayed dark beyond her curtains, Deeba felt so anxious she could hardly breathe. She wanted to run to her parents’ room and jump on their bed, wake them up and demand they be delighted and relieved that she was back. She wanted to examine the glove that Obaday had made, that she might have to give up in a little while. She wanted to read all the words on it carefully. But as the clock wound towards six in the morning, she knew she had a job to do, and she had to focus.
I’ll work out all the other stuff later, she thought, her heart pounding. Right now, I got to get ready.
“Hang on, Zann,” she whispered. “Brokkenbroll…do it right.”
She crept through the dark house, quietly gathering the equipment she needed, for the mission the Unbrellissimo had given her.
The second hand of the clock circled, mercilessly slow. The minute hand crawled. Zanna wheezed on the camp bed, tossing from side to side.
“Not long, Zann,” Deeba whispered.
Eventually it was five minutes to six. Four minutes to. Three. Deeba hesitated, then pulled on the glove Obaday had given her, for luck. In the half-light, she tried to read the words on it.
It was two minutes to six. One.
Deeba looked around, suddenly frantic. All the electrical points in the room were filled. She yanked a plug out of the socket, and the lights on her stereo dimmed. She plugged in her equipment.
The instant the minute hand touched twelve, dead-on six o’clock, Zanna began to shake.
“Come on, Zanna,” Deeba whispered.
Her friend shook, and snapped her arms and legs violently.
Zanna moaned, and held her breath for terrifying long seconds.
Breathe, thought Deeba. Breathe!
Then Deeba let out a cry of alarm. Crawling with serpentine motion and speed through her window came a tentacle of Smog.
She flailed at the thing, but it moved too fast. It whipped soundlessly through the room, stinking like exhaust, unrolled, and clamped on Zanna’s face.
“No!” shouted Deeba, and picked up her weapon. The Smog was tugging at her friend, and Zanna was exhaling.
I’ll make it gather itself, Brokkenbroll had said.
Streams of filthy smoke jetted from Zanna’s nostrils. She breathed out for a long time. The dirty spirals coiled over the bedclothes, coalesced into a dense clot, and hovered over the bed.
Deeba looked at the cloud, and she was sure it was looking at her.
Then, as filaments of smoke shot out towards Deeba’s face, she switched on the fan she held.
“Choke my friend?” she said, and blasted the smoggler with air.
It recoiled, but Deeba pursued it. She shoved the fan right into it, and the Smog dissipated in panic. She could feel the faint pressure of smuts in the air.
Deeba chased grubby wisps around the room. They scurried like slugs into the corners, and she stretched the fan to the limits of its cord, harassing them. One by one they slunk away, soaking into the carpet, or squeezing through cracks.
The Smog tendril poking through the window, all the way from UnLondon, reared up at her, but she thrust the fan at it, and it hesitated, then snapped suddenly back out of the window the way it had come.
There was a long moment of stillness.
Did I…do it? Deeba thought.
Deeba turned off the fan. She sniffed suspiciously, but there was only a hint of the Smog’s smell of petrol, coal, dirt, and sulfur. Its scum and muck was on her skin.
“Deeba?”
Zanna had opened her eyes.
“Zann!” Deeba said, and threw her arms around her friend.
“Deeba…? What happened? Where am I?” Zanna began to coug
h. You get it all up, Deeba thought. Get the last of it out.
She hugged Zanna for a long time.
“What happened?” Zanna kept saying. She winced and touched the back of her head. “What’s going on?”
Thank you, Unbrellissimo, Deeba thought. Thank you, thank you. And…well done me, too. For chasing the last of it away.
“It’s okay, Zann,” Deeba said. “You got hit by a stink-junkie and then the Smog got in you, but Brokkenbroll did something, and I just got rid of it, so…”
Deeba’s voice dried up at the sight of Zanna’s face.
“Deebs,” Zanna croaked. “What are you on about?”
“The…the Smog,” Deeba said. “On the bridge. With the Propheseers?”
Zanna shook her head.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
We don’t know how it’ll affect her, Brokkenbroll had said.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Deeba said.
“What do you mean?” said Zanna. “Yesterday? We…was it yesterday? I dreamt there was something outside my house, only…What is going on…?”
She don’t remember a thing, Deeba thought. It’s all gone. She stared in astonishment.
“What is this bloody noise?” Deeba’s mother opened the door in her dressing gown. When she saw the two girls, for a moment she stared at them blankly. Then she shook her head and blinked at them wrathfully. “It’s you two,” she said. “Banging around and shouting…It’s early, girls! Deeba, what are you…?”
She looked down in bewilderment as Deeba grabbed her in a big hug.
“Mum, Mum, Mum!” Deeba said.
“Yes, mad girl, it’s me,” Mrs. Resham said. “And despite this burst of endearing affection, you’re still too loud.”
Deeba looked up at her, too happy to care about her mother’s reaction.
“Sorry, Mrs. Resham,” said Zanna, and exploded with coughs again. “My head!”
Deeba’s mother blinked again and changed her expression. “You don’t sound well, dear,” she said. “Maybe we should get you home soon.”
Home, thought Deeba, and smiled.
“Maybe I should go,” groaned Zanna, wheezing. “I feel awful.”
We did it, Deeba thought. Despite seeing her friend in pain, not knowing what had happened to Zanna’s memories, the most important thing was that they were both there. Home. She felt overwhelmed.
“What are you grinning about?” her mother asked her.
We’re home, Deeba thought.
32
Memento
As they took Zanna home, Deeba sent out mental thanks to everyone who had helped her in UnLondon: Obaday, Jones, Skool, the Slaterunners, Mortar and Lectern, and especially Brokkenbroll the Unbrellissimo.
Good luck, she thought. She knew that the UnLondoners still had a fight ahead of them. The Smog would not take kindly to their counterattack. But with Brokkenbroll and Unstible’s plan, the UnLondoners might win.
It was their fight now. They had no Shwazzy, but they’d made their own plans, and she wished them luck.
Deeba’s delight was overshadowed by bewilderment at her mother’s strange lack of concern. But then she remembered what Mortar had said—the phlegm effect.
She went to the computer to look up the word phlegm. She found that yes, it did mean “snot,” just as she had thought, but it also had an older meaning: “equanimity.” And when she had looked that up, she learnt that it meant “calmness of temper.”
So that was what Mortar had meant.
The phlegm effect was why when her mother and father stumbled sleepily in to breakfast, they cheerfully greeted Deeba as if she hadn’t been missing for three days.
“Dad,” she said. “You remember what time I got home yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” He looked thoughtful. “About six, wasn’t it? No. I’m not sure.” He shrugged.
“What was we talking about at supper, Mum?”
“At supper, darling? It was about…your schoolwork?” Her mother turned it into a question and forgot about it.
It wasn’t as if time had stood still, and it wasn’t as if they’d forgotten her, or as if she’d been replaced by a phantom. Instead, all the time she was in UnLondon, they’d simply not worried. They’d all spent the time thinking that they’d seen her a few moments ago, or that she’d just popped into her room, or that they’d have a word with her in a second. They stayed calm—phlegmatic—because they didn’t, and couldn’t, realize that she’d really gone.
Deeba was pleased that her parents and brother and her friends and teachers hadn’t been panicking. She would have hated for them to worry. She had to admit, though, it made her a bit uncomfortable to realize that no one had been thinking about her and Zanna.
She was also uneasy when she thought of the moment of hesitation her family had shown on her return, the first time they saw her. Deeba tried not to think about it, even when her teachers and school friends did the same thing.
Zanna took a day off school, was laid up taking painkillers for her head and cough syrup for her lungs. In the playground, Deeba watched the sun and smiled into its fat, full little face. It was deeply strange not to see the empty hoop of the UnSun.
The sunlight was more vivid; she felt soaked in light.
“You’re in a good mood,” said Miss Edwards, looking at her oddly. “Haven’t seen you this happy since…” she said, and then her voice petered out, because of course she could not quite remember when she had last seen Deeba, because of the phlegm effect.
Zanna’s dad had gotten over the guilt of the accident, and that put Zanna in a good mood. Keisha and Kath were still a bit wary around Deeba, but something in the air between them had changed. They smiled at her cautiously during the lunch queue, and mentioned that Becks would be back in class soon. If that one sight of the Smog scared you, Deeba thought, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been doing the last few days.
She almost couldn’t believe it herself. In the light of that bright little sun, all her memories of grossbottles and Slaterunners and bridges to and from anywhere and flying buses and her little carton Curdle seemed like daydreams.
When what had happened seemed impossible, she made sure no one was looking, and brought out the glove, and read it. If Zanna remembers, she thought, I’ll give it to her. Till then it’s mine.
Mostly it was single words or even just a few letters, but here and there were snippets of sentences. She soon knew them all by heart.
BRICK WIZARDRY AND THE PIGEONS
AT ALL, BUT ONLY TO REGRET IT
FICULT TO GET IN, AND NO EASI
ENTER BY BOOKSTEPS, ON STORYLADDERS
UNLIKE ANY OTHER
She read them again and again in the same order, reciting them quietly like a poem.
Zanna was soon back at school, and then Becks, and the slow patching-up of relations between the friends continued. Within a couple of weeks, things between them were all good again.
It’s back like it was, Deeba told herself.
She said it to herself even though she knew that was not true.
Becks was still in her cast. Zanna suffered from headaches, and she wheezed a bit when she breathed too hard. She was physically slower than she had been, too. Only Deeba knew why.
Deeba could never talk to any of her friends about what had happened. If her conversation ever veered even close to anything even a little bit strange, Kath or Keisha or Becks would start to panic and get aggressive.
Once, when Deeba was alone with Zanna, she said gently: “Do you know what the word Shwazzy means?” In her pocket, Deeba felt the glove. By rights it’s yours, she thought.
Zanna frowned with concentration. She opened her mouth and nothing came out, and a look of great alarm, even fear, crossed her face, and she began to cough violently. She doesn’t want to remember, Deeba realized, patting her friend’s back. It’s too scary.
Of course it was frustrating, sometimes incredibly frustrating, not to be able to tell her best
friends about the extraordinary, unbelievable things that had happened. To the two of them. But when she was with Zanna on the back of a bus and they were laughing or joking around, even though Deeba could hardly believe that all those events were gone from Zanna’s head, she told herself it was worth it, and she tried not to think about the more unusual bus she and Zanna had recently taken.
Sometimes at night, Deeba would sit on her bed and look out onto the moonlit estate, and imagine UnLondon under the loonlight. She hoped everyone there was well and happy, and that the battle against the Smog was going according to plan.
It would be hard, but under the guidance of the Unbrellissimo, and Unstible, and with the secret Armets’ techniques, maybe UnLondon could win. Deeba read and reread the mysterious words on the paper glove that she believed was hers, by now, and wished the UnLondoners luck.
When she was there, she had wanted desperately to come home. Now, even though she was truly happy to be back, she was wistful that she could never say anything about the most amazing place she had ever been.
Deeba was certain that she would never see UnLondon again.
33
The Powerful Resurgence of the Everyday
Of course she was wrong.
34
Curiosity and Its Fruits
For a while, Deeba tried not to think about UnLondon, because it made her miss it. She soon realized, however, that she couldn’t stop herself.
In the streets, she would eye passersby and wonder if they knew of the abcity’s existence. She was a member of an exclusive group.
Deeba wanted to know about the UnLondoners, and UnLondon, and the Smog, and the secret war. That war with the Smog, in particular, fascinated her. The idea that something like that had once gone on in her own city made all the impossibility she had seen feel closer to home.
There must be UnLondoners who’ve moved to London, as well as the other way round, she realized. Maybe there’s a secret group I can join, or something. Friends of UnLondon.
Un Lun Dun Page 12