‘I don’t want our years of friendship to end like this. My door’s always open, Kel,’ said Ade quietly.
‘I’ll shut it carefully on my way out then.’
‘You want to join the Canvey Island crew?’ Anna couldn’t believe her ears. Meri and her two friends were sitting on the top deck of a bus on their way to the Saturday craft market at St Katharine’s Wharf, wheels splashing through the run-off from the high tide.
‘That’s right,’ said Meri. She’d left her sketchbook behind but her eye was caught by the cables of Tower Bridge on the lefthand side of the bus. Now the Victorian edifice spanned the river south to a pontoon extension built by the army in the early days of the flooding. Only pedestrians and emergency vehicles were allowed to use it.
‘Are you absolutely sure? Canvey Island, famous for its caravan parks for idippies and deserted fun fairs?’
‘Sounds a blast.’
‘You have to be crazy.’
‘No, I just want a better gig than sewer duty and I heard there’s a girl on the team who needs some company. Do you think your sister can slip my record into the ministry files?’
Anna chewed a fingernail, already nibbled to the quick. A glance checked Zara, sitting in the seat in front, couldn’t overhear. All was clear as Zara was plugged into her playlist, humming along to some dirge of a folk lament. ‘I guess she could. Can’t see that it matters. My boss won’t care. Just tell him you’re in it together with him and he’ll love you. This is our stop.’ She tapped Zara’s shoulder.
‘I’ll get my application together then tonight.’ Meri followed Anna and Zara down the stairs.
‘Fine. Better than fine,’ said Anna. ‘You might’ve saved me from committing justifiable homicide on Dexter.’ She offered Meri her fist to bump.
‘Glad to be of service.’
The craft market was on a network of barges lashed together in what had been the old dock just east of the Tower of London. As the Thames rose and flooded the riverside buildings, rendering them unfit for habitation, squatters had moved in—or squirters as they called themselves in honour of their water-based existence. They had brought with them a craft-based alternative culture, famous for quilting, knitting, furniture making and other handicrafts using recycled or salvaged goods. Zara was a frequent visitor to the market and it the main source for her clothes so when Meri had mentioned she could do with some more off ration card, Zara had suggested they all come for a little shopping.
‘So, Meri, what are you looking for?’ Zara asked, fingering the fluttering silk fringe of a stall selling scarves. ‘You don’t have to spend your ration here as it’s all recycled.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Some of the colours popped too intensely to her eyes. There seemed to be an awful lot of peril in the mix for a small place. She’d noticed that at Chelsea too. River squatters went in for the colour without being able to see it. How did that happen? It seemed beyond coincidence.
‘Then you should browse. What’s your budget?’
‘Maximum twenty pounds.’
‘You need the second hand rather than handicraft stalls—better deals. If you’re good with needle and thread, you can do your own customisation. Wow, that’s a nice piece of lace. Spanish?’
As Zara got chatting to the stall holder and Anna started picking through some old magazines, Meri wandered on down the pontoon aisle. What would Theo be up to now? Normally on a Saturday they would be doing the housework together, perhaps getting in some groceries for the week, popping into the high street chapel he liked for tea and a cheese scone baked by a local lady. If she hadn’t been over eighty, Theo swore he would’ve married her. Smiling at the memory, Meri revolved in her mind the issue of how to contact without endangering him. Stopping at an intersection, she saw one bargeman advertised an internet cafe on board what was called Big Ben’s Boat. Meri climbed up the ladder and ordered a tea from the huge, grizzly bear of an owner who sat at the hatch leading to the kitchen. He looked like either an extra from a pirate movie or a retired biker—maybe he’d been both in his time. She would bet the house on his music taste running to heavy metal. That wasn’t her stereotyping him but what the tattoos on his biceps advertised.
‘How much for screen time?’ she asked, checking her change.
‘You get fifteen with the tea.’ His voice didn’t match his demeanour, coming out as a light tenor. ‘After that, you pay a pound every fifteen.’ He passed over a surprisingly delicate shortbread biscuit on a plate. ‘The cookie’s free to first timers.’ He grinned, showing a shiny gold tooth. ‘Signal can be a bit hinky as the wireless is come-and-go but if you hit a poor patch, you deal. Not my problem.’
‘Thanks, um, Ben.’
‘Big Ben, lil’chick.’
‘Thanks, Big Ben.’ Taking her tea and biscuit to a free seat in the narrow lounge, she opened up her mail account. Sadie was online.
Hey, comp-punk, how’s things?
Like an inbox of spam without you in Art. No one to bitch about Miss Hardcastle. Kel was asking after you.
What did you say?
That you’d migrated your site to a new server. You did move, right?
Yes. The situation is a little more complicated than I said and I think I need to be careful about what I say online.
Sounds icy.
More like out in the cold, thought Meri. Do you know any way of adding more secure layers to my email so I don’t have to worry about it being hacked?
Do digi-bears do their data dumps in the woods?
Is that some weird comp-punk way of saying yes?
Affirmative.
Can you do that so I can talk to Theo without being traced?
Ditto the bear thing.
Can you set it up now?
Growl yes. I’ll send you a new message when I’ve got the programme running. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours and we can go into stealth mode. Bye-bye creepy eavesdroppers.
The green light by Sade’s name went out, telling Meri she’d gone offline. With still a few minutes left out of her fifteen, Meri started running names. She’d forgotten to do this when Ade had mentioned it on the bus during the storm and now she wanted to know what hint he had been dropping. That was before he found out that she was the enemy.
Adetokunbo, the crown that came from over the sea. Lee, a water meadow. Kelvin, narrow water.
The Perilous gave themselves names that referred to water, like a kind of secret marker. Intrigued she ran her own name. Meredith, protector of the sea. Surname meant ‘ghost lake’. Naia, her mother’s name, meant ‘wave’ in Basque. Her father, Blake, had a body of water locked in right there.
So the Atlanteans did the same. Maybe they were all commemorating the earthquake and the ensuing tidal wave that took out their homeland?
Whatever the reason, it was useful. Something she could employ as an early warning signal before anyone got close to her. She would have to remember to check the names of those on the Canvey Island crew in advance and take a long look at the ones who rang that particular bell.
Talking of bells, Big Ben was back. ‘Want another fifteen, lil’chick?’
Meri cleared her search history. ‘Not today, thanks. Do you know any good second hand clothes stalls in this part of the market?’
Ben picked up her cup and plate and wiped the table. ‘Try the Frobishers, two boats down. They’re decent people. Don’t be a stranger, lil’chick.’
Taking the genial Ben’s advice, Meri wandered down the pontoon to the barge he indicated. It was piled high with castoffs arranged in types rather than sizes: a pile of paired shoes, a mountain of trousers, a drift of skirts. Bargain hunters pawed through the goods like sniffer dogs hunting drugs, an obsessed glint to their eyes. Meri joined them, noticing the defensive looks she got if she had the temerity to go too close to someone’s rooting zone. She moved off, spotting a pile which no one else had bagged as yet. Handmade bunting fluttered overhead, seeming to lead her to it. Blinking, she realized that everything in the
mound was sparkling with peril. To normal sight the clothes would look unremarkable; to her, she could see they were patterned in intricate interlocking designs not unlike the Perilous body markings.
That gave her a moment’s pause. Did this mean she had stumbled upon another Perilous community? The back of her neck itched: nerves or was she being watched? Checking, she couldn’t see anyone paying particular attention to her. The flags rippled, luring her on. Kel and his friends couldn’t see peril unless it was flaming out at full intensity, she reminded herself. They could see into the UV but not as far as she could. These designs were too subtle for them. Who had made them then?
Intrigued now, Meri drew closer and knelt down among the clothes. She couldn’t stop herself reaching for a blouse with a spiral print, so like Kel’s skin. She ran her finger over the fabric, wishing…she wasn’t sure what she wished.
‘Are you buying that old thing?’ A woman appeared from the cabin, mug of tea in one hand, e-cigarette in the other. The end glowed violet.
‘Thinking of it.’
The woman, a buxom redhead in a multilayered skirt and sturdy black boots, took a puff, releasing a cloud of vapour. ‘If thinking turns to spending, then I could let you have it for a song.’
‘Which one do you want me to sing?’ Meri pressed the blouse to her chest. It was already hers.
The woman smirked and replied with matching sarcasm. ‘“Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside”—or fifty pence.’
Meri dug into her pocket. ‘As I sing like a frog, I’ll do you a favour and give you the money.’
‘See anything else you like? What about that nice leopard print under your knee?’
Meri looked down and saw that she was indeed squashing a skirt in that design. But it was in peril again. Was this a trap? ‘What leopard print? I don’t see anything.’
The woman hooked a stool from behind her counter with her boot and dragged it beside Meri. ‘Of course you don’t. Just like you can’t see that cloud pattern on that tablecloth and the waves on that jacket.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, rotating them so Meri could see that she had no Perilous marks on her.
Puzzlement tangled with excitement. Could the bargewoman possibly be another Tean? Meri noticed she was selecting all the pieces with the boldest designs in peril, the most obvious in the heap. ‘I was looking for a floral pattern myself. Shame you haven’t got one.’ Meri was actually holding a scarf with the palest design of tiny interlinked flowers.
‘No, I haven’t got anything like that on show.’
‘Are you Mrs Frobisher?’
‘That’s me. Who’s asking?’
‘Emma Boot.’
‘Nice steady name, but not your own, I’m thinking. Show me your arms.’
Meri slipped off her jacket.
‘Interesting.’ She stuffed the e-cigarette in a pocket. ‘And interesting that you didn’t question the need for me to see. I wonder. Emma, I think you and I should talk.’ She glanced over to where a customer was arguing with another over who had spotted a pair of suede boots first. ‘But not right now. I’ve got to stop World War Four.’ She pressed a card into Meri’s hands. On the front it appeared to be a standard business card but on the back there was a name—Tea and Sympathy—and a further set of numbers printed in peril coloured text.
‘Thanks.’
‘You see that, don’t you? Without any help?’
‘See what?’
Mrs Frobisher just smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, Emma.’
10
On the top floor of the science block, Kel gazed out at the snow falling on the playing fields. Last day before the Christmas holidays and the mud between the rugby goalposts was being erased, a little like his old life had been wiped out by this new existence. Two months had passed since he left Ade’s house. That meant eight weeks in a lonely bedsit sharing a bathroom with two refugees and an IDP family from Dorset. Fifty-six days of avoiding Ade and Lee. One thousand three hundred and thirty four hours of worrying that they would catch Meri.
He hadn’t taken up Theo’s offer of a spare room, thinking that would only bring yet more attention to Meri’s guardian. He had called round a couple of times for dinner but Theo and he had both studiously not mentioned the subject that was closest to their hearts. Both of them believed they were being watched. As for Meri, Kel was working on the no news was good news basis. That gave him a little hope in an otherwise bleak situation.
‘Kel, your yeast isn’t going to respire unless you add that solution,’ warned the teacher. ‘You won’t have time to record the results if you don’t get a move on.’
‘Sorry, yes.’
Dr Morrison, an owlish woman in round spectacles who only clocked in at just over five feet, came to stand at his shoulder so she could share the view from the second floor window. ‘I can see why you’re finding it hard to pay attention. Very pretty. Shame it means it’s here until February.’ She flashed him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Reminds me of certain members of my family at Christmas who have the unfortunate habit of far outstaying their welcome.’
‘You think it’ll last that long?’
‘We seem to get either unseasonably mild or super cold winters. This year, with the Gulf Stream weakened, no warm current keeping the cold at bay, I’d say it is time to dig out the woolies and wellies.’
Kel thought grimly of the inadequate heater in his bedroom and the howling gale through the ill-fitting window frame. Though by law landlords were supposed to have insulated their properties to the highest eco standards, there were many that had only done so on paper. It was times like this when he missed his old home with its comforts. He had taken much for granted.
‘And I definitely don’t want to stay after school waiting for you to finish this up,’ continued Dr Morrison, ‘if the snow’s going to make the journey home a nightmare.’
‘Right. Yes. I’ll get on with the experiment.’
Going through the required steps, Kel scribbled his results into the table on the handout and quickly put away his apparatus. He could see Ade and Lee had already completed the assignment and were watching him from the other side of the lab. He really didn’t want to talk to them right now, not when he’d hit a low point. He knew he was vulnerable: lonely, directionless, torn between his people and protecting someone who didn’t want him anywhere near her. It was hard to keep on believing he was handling this the right way.
And, great, they were heading for him. That was the mouldy icing on his stale cake.
‘How’s it going, Kel?’ asked Ade.
‘Fine. You?’
‘We’re good. Look, we’re having a party tonight. Tiber flared out this morning at training so we’re having a gathering. You want to come?’
‘Thanks for asking, but I’ve got plans.’
‘Yeah, to sit in that flea pit you call a home these days,’ muttered Lee.
Ade elbowed him. ‘You wouldn’t be committing anything, not coming back in as a guard or whatever. We want you there just as one of us.’
And Kel wanted to be there with the only family he’d really known, but he knew a slippery slope when he saw one. ‘I really appreciate that you’ve reached out, Ade, but I just can’t.’
‘If you change your mind…’
‘I won’t.’
‘There’s no news of her—and I’m not snowing you on this.’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘Do you realize she may never surface again and you’re holding out for no reason? We might never have to do anything about her?’
‘But I’ll still know what you were prepared to do, won’t I?’
‘Yeah, you do.’ Ade shifted a step away. ‘And it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. You’re the one who went off on a tangent. I think you’ve made the wrong choice. We’re ready to forgive when you see sense.’
Kel couldn’t thank Ade for that so just nodded. ‘Understood. Tell Tiber congratulations.’
‘Have a good holiday.’
‘Yeah. Yo
u too.’
It was even harder to return to his bedsit after that conversation. The room smelt damp, the sheets never seemed quite dry, and his few books were beginning to swell with the background moisture. Even his guitar felt slimy when he picked it up. Rather than stay in this dump, he wrapped up in his warmest clothes and headed out to the station. His dad’s allowance for living expenses only went so far. Money being more than tight now he no longer had a wage, he made rent by busking. A Friday evening before Christmas should be a good time to earn the rest of the next month’s payment.
His usual spot at Kensington High Street was taken so Kel got back on the Tube and headed for Covent Garden, an open space in the heart of London right on the edge of the water that lapped at the Strand at high tide. Once a fruit and vegetable market, the white arcades had been turned into a dining and tourist shopping destination many decades ago. There was a risk in such a popular place that he wouldn’t get to play. The police were notorious for moving people along there unless they forked out for the expensive street entertainer licence but the upside was that it was guaranteed to be busy. Even an hour busking there was well worth it. Wandering the cobbles of the yard inside the covered market, Kel scouted the possibilities, banking on some of the regulars having been kept inside by the snow and that he’d find a prime spot. He wasn’t disappointed. A space was available under the arcade near the Royal Opera House and there were queues forming for the night’s ballet, The Nutcracker Suite, according to the lit posters festooned with holly and tinsel. As if on cue, a droid street sweeper, size of an industrial vacuum cleaner, hummed passed, clearing a patch for him. Tucking his plectrum between his teeth, Kel got out his guitar to tune up, half an eye on roving police patrols.
When Kel finished tightening his strings he found a little girl in a blue winter coat watching him expectantly, tugging at her mother’s hand as they waited for the doors to open. Smiling, Kel broke into a medley of Disney classics, not his usual repertoire but it went down well with the pre-theatre crowd. His guitar case began to fill up with coins. Once that early audience went inside, he switched to the songs he preferred by the Sharks and Renaissance Man, adding in a couple he’d composed himself, and a few Beatles, Ed Sheeran and Adele golden oldies. That drew him a new crowd, people on their way to Christmas parties or drinks after work. After a drag of a day, Kel was almost beginning to enjoy himself.
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