Metropolitan Dreams (Cityscape Book 1)

by Mark A. King

  Wallace didn’t want to hear about Robbie’s difficulties or how keeping time had become an impossibility. It was a dog-eat-dog world, Wallace would say, and Robbie and the other employees were runts.

  Robbie headed straight for Wallace’s office.

  “Well? Don’t you have anything to say? I know we don’t pay much, but I expect you to be able to hold a coherent conversation,” Wallace said.

  Robbie considered this carefully. He’d always been told not to talk to the boss, especially when Wallace was barking orders or trying to instil discipline into errant workers. “I have my reasons, Mr. Wallace, but I guess you’re not interested in hearing them,” Robbie said, head bowed. “You’re running a successful business. Margins are tight. People like me should be grateful. And I am appreciative, Mr. Wallace.”

  Wallace rubbed his palms up and down on his thighs, a motion normally reserved for his PA, Suzi. Robbie pressed his tongue against his teeth, trying desperately not to grind them. “It’s not like you didn’t know the rules. This isn’t the first time, is it Bobby?”

  Bobby? Bloody tosser. That jumped-up, low-life, pervy tosser knows that’s not my name. He’s doing it just to get a reaction. But he’s not going to get one. I have responsibilities, I need this job.

  “I’m sorry sir,” Robbie said, “I can only apologise. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s too late, Bobby. I have no use for unreliable staff.”

  “You can’t do this. I need a job. Where am I going to live?”

  “It’s policy. You know that. We need rules. Without rules there is nothing but chaos.” Wallace straightened his clip-on tie and fiddled with a suit button straining on his paunch. “This is not my problem, Bobby. You should have realised what a good thing you had going. Close the door on your way out.”

  Back in school, when Robbie was someone—respected, even feared—kids like Wallace would have been treated like worms—something to be prodded and squashed. Now the vulture-necked cretin had the upper-hand.

  Maybe Leo was right.

  Robbie felt the bile rise in his stomach. Maybe Wallace wore a clip-on tie because people might lean across the desk and strangle him with it. Robbie considered it.

  What good would it do?

  Wallace looked like the type to have a panic button under his desk. Robbie didn’t want trouble with the police. He walked away, feeling Wallace’s gaze on his back where there used to be a spine.

  Robbie trudged into the changing rooms, stopping to collect the handful of items he stored in the locker. He wouldn’t miss the perspiration-pooling zip-up overalls caked in dried poultry blood. The factory reminded him of the city. It was easy to be a consumer, to taste the high-life without thinking how a product or service came to be. The people in the supermarkets and restaurants didn’t stop to think about the likes of Robbie Hawke, just as the Armani suits that walked the streets every day didn’t consider the homeless. The blissful greedy only wanted more at the expense of the Robbies of the world. There seemed to be nothing between.

  Robbie had no partner or job. Nowhere to live. All of this had happened when he’d been striving to be a decent man. Where had it gotten him? Junkie Leo had screwed up and gone too far, but he was right. The only way to make something of yourself was to exploit others rather than be exploited. Robbie wouldn’t have screwed up like Leo. He wasn’t a crack-addled junkie.

  Robbie left the factory. There was another way to live his life.

  He just needed to be re-born.

  Maria

  After Am’ma was taken from me, I ran.

  Running is too grand a concept for someone with CP, but I escaped, disappeared, and hid—just like I always do when I am scared.

  I rode the Tube and headed west, towards the city. I wanted to be as far away from the place where I saw her death as I could.

  I sat on the grimy bench, the carriage rocking me like a cradle, and I stared at the window and stared and stared. When the train passed into darkness or shadows, the reflection in the window showed a ghost—with fuzzy edges and hollow, staring eyes—a ghost of who I was and the future I had lost. There was no second reflection with me. I couldn’t remember a time when Am’ma was not by my side.

  I touched the seat beside me. Empty. Ran my hands over the fabric, feeling the small strands under my fingernails. I had to be sure I was not in the middle of a nightmare. I wished I was. Or that this was some trick of the light. Am’ma was gone.

  The light could play tricks, I knew. I remembered home.

  In the beachside forests, I would hide. The shadows were like a camouflage; even if people tried to find me, the moving shadows of the palms and the sharp cuts of sunlight played tricks on sun-blinded eyes. I could be feet from someone and they would not know it.

  But Am’ma knew where to find me. Whenever we fought, and we fought a lot those last few months, I would hide from the white-heat of village and beach, and shelter underneath the coconut palms.

  The darkness felt like the sister I’d always wanted. It did not judge me, it only sought to listen and heal. I felt safe and protected. It was where I went when I nursed the grazes I had from falling or the bruises from the frequent beatings I would get because I was different from the other kids.

  In the curved shadows of the forest, Am’ma knew the tricks of the light. The last time I was there, I did not see Am’ma approach, and when I finally saw her, I need not have worried about more fighting, as her eyes were dark pools of tenderness. She hugged me tight. The cool tears on my shoulder told me she was sorry for the things she had said.

  The few people on the train showed no interest in me. The adverts above their seats promised brighter smiles, bigger homes, shiny phones, fancier cars, and better lives. I thought I was coming to London for answers and, maybe, to see a better life.

  “No more Malayalam, Am’ma,” I scolded her. “We agreed you would talk in English. Father is English, you are not, I understand that. But this isn’t about you and him. We are going to London and you know English better than you like to pretend.”

  Her nose wrinkled, and she looked at me with her best ‘don’t push me, I’m still your mother’ look. “Please reconsider, ‘Riah. London is too dangerous,” Am’ma said, her watery eyes reflecting the dark green of the forest. “You were so tiny when you were born. I watched the breathing tubes, the needles, the wires poking out of your tiny body. I fed you for hours. I protected your falls and tried to save you from others. I cannot let this be, ‘Riah.”

  I tugged my skirt up and showed her the bruises. “How safe is it here for me, Am’ma?”

  Am’ma turned away. It had been a long time since I last showed her my place in the world. “I have never met Pitāv—Dad. Only through Skype, which doesn’t work—it’s all blocky and freezes. I want to see where he lives, where one half of me came from.” Am’ma tutted. I knew she wouldn’t like it. What happened between her and Dad was a subject I’d learned not to talk about.

  “Is this why you dyed your hair, ‘Riah? Why you wear those borrowed clothes? You know you are pretty as you are. You don’t need to dress as a Westerner.”

  My skin and hair were both lighter than anyone else’s I knew, but it was not enough. I had had enough of Kerala, enough of trying my best to fit in when it was just not possible. “I want to meet Dad. I want to be invisible. To feel ... normal. In London, anything is possible.”

  She gently rubbed my bruises. She kissed my eyelids. “Very well,” she said. “I will let you go. But not alone, ‘Riah, as much as you might want to. I am not leaving you alone. I will never leave you.”

  In the carriage, the train rolled along the bumpy tracks, and the sounds looped in my ears: cha-cha-cha-cha, cha-cha-cha-cha, and Am’ma’s words echoed with the voice of the train.

  I will never leave you.

  Never leave you.

  The train gave me time to think. It was dry and safe. There were no scary people with knives on the train. In the breast pocket of my denim jacket was m
y Travelcard. I pressed the pocket to my heart and held it there for a moment. It was my route to safety and mobility. It was the last gift Am’ma had given me, and it was more precious to me than gold.

  We stopped at the newsagents’ shop to buy the bus and train ticket. I put it in my pocket. We should have left then. But I insisted on getting some flowers for Auntie, who we were staying with for a few days before seeing Pitāv, who was nearby in East Ham.

  The store was narrow and overstocked. The shopkeeper smiled at us. There was another woman, pretty, but tired-looking. She was standing at the milk fridge.

  Two men rushed in.

  They talked for a moment, like they were having a chat.

  Then there was aggressive shouting and threats.

  Am’ma held my arm and we backed further away from the counter.

  The other customer, the woman, attacked one of the men. There was a struggle. The woman stumbled out of the shop. Am’ma tried to scream, but there were no words, just a dry gasp. The man behind the counter fumbled and hesitated. The two men thought this was funny. One of the men headed towards us. His eyes were wide, cloudy and unfocused. Am’ma eased herself in front of me.

  The young robber looked at me like I was a prize in a funfair. He said he would take me. That I would do. He said—he said we would have fun before I had fun with others. Am’ma did not think about the knife; she charged at him like an angry rhino. Am’ma was not powerful or strong, but I see that she would do anything to protect me—even lose her life.

  No. No. No.

  I screamed the words in my head. It all happened so quickly in reality, yet, in my mind, it is flick-book animation.

  The stations whizzed by like cartoon strips in the windows of the carriage. I looked at the Tube map, I memorised the stations, the lines, and the interchanges. My memory was always good. Mansion House station was where I decided to change and double back on myself. The station approached, and I tried to stand on even more wobbly legs than normal. I reached for the metal rail. It was coated in fingerprint smears and felt sticky to touch.

  The older man at the newsagents’ did it. He was tall, twitchy, and thin, with mop-hair like medusa’s snakes, his eyes glazed and distant. He performed the act without emotion, stabbing Am’ma like an animal in a butcher’s. Again. Again. Again.

  Am’ma fell. Her eyes were empty—lifeless. She was gone. I was alone.

  I threw myself at the younger man. It was instinctive, an action without thought. He stumbled, heavily. When he turned to grab onto his fellow criminal, he slipped in the blood on the floor. I heard his head crack as he fell against the metal shelf. As he slumped, his phone spilled out of his pocket and landed by my feet. He landed in a heap on top of Am’ma. I felt sick that he was touching her, even in death. His ugly soul might stop Am’ma’s from going to heaven.

  The older robber was not interested in the shopkeeper and the money. He just wanted the phone and to leave as quickly as he could. I looked at the phone. He shook his head. He said something like, “I need that phone. It belongs to Western.” I grabbed it. He had taken something from me—I took something back. The swap was not fair, but I had killed his friend, even if it was only by accident. It was too late for Am’ma. All she would want was for me to be safe.

  Sirens screamed into the morning. Closer, closer they came. The remaining robber was distracted.

  I edged past Am’ma and the evil man. I closed my eyes and blessed myself, as a good Syro-Malabar Catholic girl should do in the presence of death; Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

  And I ran, as best as I could. I wanted to hide, because Am’ma would want me to be safe. I wanted to hide, because it is all I have ever done.

  I had watched stories from the TV back home about street children using public transport to move and stay safe. I decided to leave the train and live on the networks and in the tunnels until I could be sure I was safe. I owed Am’ma everything, and she had died for me.

  I would hide. I would live. I would not cry.

  Cal

  I found myself outside a small building made of burgundy bricks and tiles with glass arches above. The building was no more than a few houses wide. In the middle was a small shop, but it wasn’t the shop that I was interested in.

  The sounds I heard had changed. At first it was a melody of accents and foreign words, a multi-cultural lullaby—but then as I peered at the door, which was slightly ajar, I heard sharp howls, echoing shrieks, and tumbling screams of pain.

  Everything inside me told me to walk away. But my legs refused to budge—it was as if they were telling me I could not keep hiding.

  There were two doors. One was firmly locked, the other ajar, only just, behind it nothing but blackness.

  In the past I might have used a match or a lighter, but instead I took out my mobile and switched the LED torch on.

  Opening the door, I found a stairway. I pooled the light around—the area below the stairs was just like any normal Tube station, but old—a disused station. The signs appeared in pre-WW2 font.

  The station sign said Down Street.

  The sounds became louder as I descended.

  The treads of the stairs seemed safe; they looked new. The rest of the stairway was original, and it probably hadn’t been maintained or cleaned in several decades. The arched tiles were covered in moss and damp splodges that looked like they might coalesce and shape-shift into a single entity.

  The howling, human sounds receded. Instead I heard distant whistles that sounded like those of policemen from an era before my time. I heard the unmistakable sound of wartime sirens.

  I grasped the handrails—my fingernails bent against the cold copper tubes. But still I kept descending.

  She is down here somewhere.

  Between the siren wails and drones, there was the whizzing sound of bombs falling, the thunder of the impact followed by silence. Then the music of war—the crackle and creak of raging fire.

  Further down, I smelled smoke—not from cordite or timber, but from a cigar. I heard a booming voice and drunken laughter—laughter that masked the depression the man took everywhere with him—the black dog as he liked to call it. Churchill.

  I feared the sight of ghosts, people long gone. I hesitated. My leading leg retreated to join the trailing foot a step higher. I close my eyes. It is not real. It can’t be real.

  The sounds and smells disappeared, and I made the final steps without incident.

  At the bottom was a pedestrian tunnel, bigger than any I had seen in an Underground station.

  There were rooms in the alcoves. Damp and rotten, but rooms nonetheless. Wartime rooms. Disused bathtubs, sinks, desks, and old telephone exchanges.

  I found myself lost in this time capsule that hid beneath the streets.

  “Hello, Cal.”

  I jumped—not just my heart, but my entire body, at least an inch off the ground.

  She was behind me.

  “Wh—who are you?” I stuttered. I cleared my throat, wanting my next words to sound stronger and less pathetic.

  “You know who I am Cal. I saved you all those years ago.” Her voice was old, yet young. Familiar, yet distant. “But you chose to forget me. More recently you chose to hang around with the old guy with the suit.”

  I wanted to clear my throat again, but didn’t want to sound like an aging US politician. “Depart this place!” I shouted. I thought I was ready, but all I had was my false sense of confidence and the super-bright LED camera-light on my phone. I clutched the phone like it was holy water and garlic. “Leave now and no harm will come to you.”

  She mocked me and giggled like a nursery-school child. “You are very funny, Cal.” Did she enjoy watching me squirm? Was it her form of entertainment? “It’s been a while.” She leaned close to me, so I could feel her cold breath on my neck. Disloyal goose bumps pimpled my skin. “I guess you have a lot of questions. Am I real? Who am I? What do I want? Let’s cut the to the chase, Cal. I’ll answer these for you.”

 
; Though I was terrified, I was thankful she was direct and blunt. It made a refreshing change after dealing with Abna and his games. “Oh, I’m real alright. I’m Merla Kali. I’m older than the city itself. I saw it being built from the very first mud-huts. What do I want? Life is for living, Cal, it’s not for rules, laws, or misplaced loyalties. We live. We die. It’s got to be more fulfilling than spending a half-lived existence at an office desk, don’t you think?”

  She breathed harder. Her icy lips must have been nearly touching me; I swore I could feel the hairs on my neck start to solidify. “Is this real enough for you, Cal? Just accept it as the truth and you’ll be saving us both a lot of time. Oh—and Cal—I know you better than you know yourself, so don’t try to out-smart me.”

  I thought about my phone LED—shining it in her face. I slumped my shoulders as I realised my faith in it was completely wasted. What harm could come to her through some light? This wasn’t a teenage vampire movie.

  “I want to help you, Cal. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. In fact, I want to help everyone.”

  She grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face her. Her touch was strong and powerful. When I dared to look at her, I expected to see a body-builder or a hood with emptiness inside. But she was just a woman. Alluring and indescribably beautiful, but she was no creature or monster.

  Perhaps this was her disguise?

  I willed my eyes to stay open. I knew that to stand there facing her with my eyes closed would seem pathetic and weak. She was thin and had the sort of cheekbones people paid good money to obtain. Lips the envy of lipstick models. Eyelashes that bordered on the limits of fake. Her skin was a similar tone to mine, but I doubted her ancestry was the same. Her hair was ash blond, but streaked with the colours of dusk—dark indigos, shimmering greens, the odd strand of black. She was a good five inches shorter than I was, but she exuded a sense of power and control.