People Park

by Pasha Malla

  Oh? said the woman. Sudden interest glinted in her eyes.

  Debbie felt filthy, but blundered on: Yeah, and if you give me your information I bet this is just the kind of feel-good story she’d love. You know, power out in the Zone, kind benevolent citizen makes generous act . . .

  Benevolent, murmured the woman. I like it!

  She was already out of the car, handing Debbie a business card, eyes glazed with fantasy, projecting herself onto her friends’ TV screens, basking in their awe and envy. She spoke in a rush, every moment here delayed her taste of fame: Keep the engine running, you won’t need to log in. There’s a lot by Canal Station, park it there. Or I’m going to have to pay for it, understand?

  Of course, said Debbie, sliding behind the wheel. I appreciate this so much.

  And I’ll hear from you soon? About the show?

  Debbie nodded. You bet.

  Gosh, little old me on In the Know, cooed the woman, who would have guessed?

  V

  EARL STOOD at the top of a staircase that vanished into People Park as a swimming ladder into a frozen pond. The fog collecting on the common didn’t shift or swirl or embody any of the vaporous properties it did elsewhere in the city, but seemed instead a solid stagnant mass. Down there somewhere was the gazebo — and, with luck, Gip’s knapsack and his meds. The air was icy, the light a sort of non-light. It had stopped snowing, what had fallen layered the ground, pebbly and granular, half an inch thick.

  Pearl imagined herself heading down into the misty park, swallowed up, never coming out. But that was ridiculous. She dangled a toe until a snowy stair responded with a squeak and crunch. And down she went, tentatively, by feel and sound, imagining Gip and Kellogg and Elsie-Anne browsing the Museum’s exhibits, her husband flapping his guidebook and raving about the place as if it hosted miracles.

  A dozen careful steps later the stairs flattened into a Scenic Vista, the fog so thick she crossed the platform at a crouch, feeling ahead with her hands. In the snow her fingers quickly went cold and stiff, she brought them to her mouth to blow on them, reached out again — but what if she encountered something cold and wet and fleshy lying on the deck . . . Pearl recoiled. A chill passed through her, deeper than the cold, it iced her heart.

  Kneeling, she checked her watch: dead, the hands stuck at nine and twelve. She thought of Gip. Her bad knee twitched. In inclement weather and with stress, acting as a vane or gauge, the restitched ligaments often tightened. Though this felt different, not stiffness or pain, but a strange, electrical tingling.

  She stood, shook her leg out. Her knee was swollen to twice its normal size. Water retention usually came on over hours, if not days, and only after a workout. She hadn’t done much lately but sleep and sit and stand. Fluid seemed to be collecting at an abnormally drastic rate, and the joint pulsed, and despite the frigid air wasn’t cold at all, but oddly warm and soft, almost spongy — and it was inflating.

  Her jeans stretched, split, the denim tore with a zippery sound and out the knee crowned. Pearl stumbled, the entire leg was numb, she had to hop. Finding the deck’s railing she leaned against it: the knee had gone hydrotic, big as a toddler’s head. Weakly Pearl called for help, her words slipped into the fog and were lost.

  She waited. There was no pain. Instead the numbing fizzled into lightness. And the knee, a globelike bloom, began lifting, and behind it went her leg, unencumbered by will or gravity. The rest of her body followed: her right foot peeled from the deck, there was a weightlessness and ease to the whole thing. Pearl went limp, her worry drained into the fog. This must be a dream, she thought. She never dreamed, now she felt herself a tourist in her own subconscious. What to do but give herself over to its magic? And so she floated, her kneecap the puffed-up bladder of a hot air balloon, the rest of her body dangling beneath, out into the pillowy air over the common.

  THE FIGURE IS CLOSE enough that on its face Calum can make out shadowy splotches of eyes, a nose, a mouth. Its clothes are white. And as it advances it draws a curtain upon the world — no, a curtain would be something. This is just oblivion: everything behind it is swept from existence. The bird, the pigeon or dove, swoops down from somewhere, the airy splash of its wings, looping up and circling above. Calum tries not to think of vultures. And still the figure approaches, sweeping with it that great wave of nothingness. It is a man, a brownskinned baldheaded man in white moving with brisk strides, and as he closes in Calum sees upon this man’s face, grim and dark as a ditch: a grin.

  ONCE THE NOISES upstairs had calmed, Magurk raised his sword. Who’s got my back? He pointed the tip of the blade at Diamond-Wood. Recruit, you ready to earn your schnapps?

  The aide glanced at the Mayor, who waved him away. My sword’s got a jones, screamed Magurk, blade in disembowelling position. Griggs, sighing, opened the portal from his console: no one waited there ready to pounce.

  Magurk crept up the slope at a crouch, Diamond-Wood followed awkwardly on his crutches. A tense sort of hush poured down from above. The Mayor waited, listening. They’ve trashed the place, cried Magurk. My people, are you with me?

  Griggs and Noodles exchanged a look.

  We should probably get the radios back up, said Griggs, and Noodles nodded, and together they headed upstairs to join their brethren.

  The Mayor eyed Favours in his wheelchair. Should we have a race or something?

  Code 42, chuckled Favours, they’re here, at last!

  From upstairs came moans of dismay, disgust, barks of rage from Magurk, the sound of the men moving room to room, surveying the damage.

  So what next for your little boys’ club? said the Mayor.

  His eyes widened — in anticipation, it seemed.

  And the portal banged closed.

  Favours squealed.

  From the hallway that led to the other chambers came a whooshing, fluttering sound. Out of the darkness flew a bird. It circled the room — the Mayor ducked — and returned down the hall. From the shadows came a patter of footsteps and in the next chamber the man hollered, Lark! My liberationeers have arrived!

  In a rush of black six hooded figures spilled into the conference room. Before the Mayor could cry for help, hands were upon her, a strip of ducktape was slapped across her mouth. Favours was spun around in his wheelchair, the old man clapped and hooted in delight, and then he was shuttled off into the Chambers.

  The Mayor found herself wheeled past barred cells and bunkrooms, down a ramp into an unlit corridor. Favours’ whoops faded as he was swerved along another passageway. The abductors piloted her in silence, eerily purposeful, careering around a corner — a flash of light from some hatch above, they were entering a stormdrain. Things went dark again. The air warmed, infused with a mustardy, sulphurous smell . . .

  The floor degenerated from concrete to gravel, juddering through the cart and rattling the Mayor’s teeth, she held on for dear life. My legs, she screamed, make sure you don’t lose my legs — but beneath the gag her words sounded submerged. On they went, hairpinning into a passageway that angled up toward streetlevel.

  Some light splashed weakly from the end of this tunnel: in it the Mayor tried to get a sense of who her kidnappers were. But their faces were mysteries inside their hoods. They drove her headlong up toward the watery brightness — a glimpse of the surface in some distant corner, who knew where, of her city.

  THE FIGURE STRETCHES from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his palm and suddenly Calum is outside it all. He has a bird’s-eye view. From high above Calum sees himself upon the bridge and sends frantic thoughts to this person who is some version of himself to run, but the body is frozen, leaning against the railing, staring at this person, whoever it might be, barrelling over the bridge and inhaling the visible world with him.

  That purple-lipped grin shadows the lower half of its brown face, the grin of some sinister and weird anticipation. Here are the eyes, da
rk and glittering. The baldhead sings with a dull sheen. The legs move in great strides but the upper body is motionless, almost rigid, the man less runs toward the Calum on the bridge than glides.

  And this Calum is up against the railing, on this bridge from nowhere to nowhere, with even that nowhere becoming some farther and deeper sort of nowhere, and the man closing in of course must be a dream, the whole thing must be a dream. The skybound Calum watches himself look over the railing: hundreds of feet below, a swath of gauze.

  The figure is big and close, hovering, and overhead Calum as a bird traces looping circles against the shrinking sky, and where will he go when there is no sky left. A vast negative halo surrounds this approaching figure. It brings nothingness into Calum’s dream — but then Calum thinks no, this is not his dream, it couldn’t be his dream. Calum has invaded someone else’s dream and now that person is coming to banish him from it.

  From above Calum watches himself watching — the figure is almost upon him, moving swift and slick, no sounds of footsteps, no sounds at all, just those blazing black eyes and monstrous joyous grin, legs stabbing in front and sweeping away behind him, and this man is big, he is so big, and he is reaching for Calum with long thin brown fingers, and the fingers seem to be growing, stretching into tentacles twisted through with veins.

  Things start to swirl and twist and eddy and Calum, soaring, can imagine this man’s hot breath on his own face, those fingers lace snakelike around his wrists, almost gently, and he feels his knees go weak — but then with a last desperate surge of strength Calum watches himself tear free, climb up onto the railing, and launch himself off the bridge.

  But then Calum is climbing up, closing his eyes, and jumping off the bridge.

  Closing his eyes, Calum climbs onto the railing and jumps.

  Before the man is fully upon him, the man’s fingers are curling around his wrists and he feels the feathery touch of something else wrapping his ankles, the mouth opening from a grin to something far more sinister, he is trying to devour Calum, Calum shakes his arms free and leaps up onto the railing and propels himself off the bridge.

  In silence Calum jumps off the bridge.

  Eyes closed, Calum jumps, and for a moment finds himself floating.

  And he is back inside his body and falling. The wind whistles into his ears and his head fills with a sort of screaming, all he can hear is screaming, his guts tumble, and down he plummets, not quite a swan-dive but flattened out, all swimming limbs, the tug of gravity, Calum’s body, the water and meat of it, falling, and it feels endless, this fall, down and down he tumbles toward the possible river below. He braces himself for the smack and icy rush, time will slow as the water catches him, then he will sink, and his crushed and ruined corpse will be buoyed back to the surface and swept away. And if this is a dream Calum will instead of dying hit the water and wake.

  THAT’S HIM, said Starx. That’s the kid.

  What kid — oh. Him?

  That kid on the corner there. The one who spat on you.

  Across the intersection of F and 10 the fog opened to reveal the Golden Barrel Taverne. From the Citywagon idling at the corner Olpert watched: onto the sidewalk stumbled a someone in a black sweatshirt, hood up. His movements were a sleepwalker’s — that sludgy, heavyfooted trudge through one’s own inner world.

  Same shirt, said Starx, same slouch. Though, fug. All these people look the same to me.

  Olpert squinted. The fog swirled, the figure disappeared. Are you sure that’s him? What’s he doing?

  Take the wheel, said Starx, unbuckling his seatbelt. I’m going.

  A lump bobbed in Olpert’s throat.

  These animals, they need to pay.

  Starx flew into the street like a great khaki bat, the fog closed around him. A scrabble of footsteps, muffled shouts, Olpert thought he heard his name, opened his door, reconsidered, and slid into the driver’s seat. As he edged the Citywagon forward, the passengerside door flapped and creaked. A misty whorl shivered up over the hood. Olpert eased on the accelerator, couldn’t see anything.

  And then a person came reeling out of the fog, right in the path of the car. Olpert yelped, stomped the gas. The figure, black as a shadow, thumped into the grille, flipped over the hood, and amid a screech of brakes rolled up and wedged between the open door and the windshield.

  The car idled. A jagged hypotenuse cracked the glass. Beyond it the fog tumbled and seethed. Half lolling into the car, half dangling outside, hung a boy.

  Starx appeared, stared at the body, at Olpert, and back.

  Olpert felt he’d swallowed a handful of tacks and his stomach was a clothesdryer, tumbling them around.

  Starx spoke — Holy fug, Bailie — and some part of Olpert released and drifted off into the mist. He felt light, watching Starx peel the kid from the doorframe and lay his body, limp as a sack of flour, on the hood of the car. Starx listened to the chest, felt for a pulse inside the hood. He’s dead, said Starx, eyes wide and astonished. We killed him.

  We? said Olpert.

  We.

  Up and down F Street, nothing but fog.

  Open the trunk, said Starx. His voice was solemn.

  Olpert did.

  Now help me.

  Together they hoisted the body into the trunk. Gently Starx folded the kid’s legs, crossed his arms on his chest. Around his left wrist, a fork. The hood came loose: one side of his face was a mess, the left eye swollen shut, the cheek stippled with dried blood.

  At least it’s him, said Starx, the kid who spat on you. See?

  Olpert’s vision swam. The tailpipe spewed exhaust against his legs, pleasant and warm, he didn’t want to move. Starx closed the trunk and guided Olpert into the passenger seat. But the door wouldn’t close properly, it kept popping open.

  Just hang on to it, said Starx.

  Olpert did.

  Listen, Bailie, this is the reason we’re in this organization. You have a problem, they take care of it. We’ll take him to the HG’s. They’ll know what to do. Right?

  Okay.

  He handed Olpert the walkie-talkie. You talk though. Your gramps an OG and all.

  Okay.

  Bailie, it’s going to be fine. It’s an accident. I pushed him, sure, but I didn’t realize you were — not that it was your fault . . . Starx massaged his temples with his thumbs. Just an accident, he said. They’ll take care of it.

  Starx turned onto Tangent 10. Waiting for a response over the radio, Olpert stared at his reflection in the sideview mirror. A smudge marked his jawline from ear to chin: he wiped at it, but the mark remained. Vaguely aware of Griggs’ voice — What is it, B-Squad — calling from his lap, Olpert peered at the mirror: the mark wasn’t on his face at all. It was the glass, he realized, smeared with something red and sticky-looking and wet.

  VI

  VENING WAS coming and the armoire was empty. Or it appeared empty, it was possible that if Sam looked one place then Raven went somewhere else, that he could somehow read Sam’s thoughts and knew where his eyes would go and bounce from that spot to another. The door was secure, the lock held fast, there was no chance the illustrationist could have tunnelled his way out, what would he have used?

  Sam had trunked him, the illustrationist had told him how: The image I take with me into the trunk dictates where I will reappear. The image had been of the armoire. Sam had drawn it. But what if his drawing hadn’t been perfect enough? Maybe the perspective was off, or he’d gotten the shading wrong . . . Where might Raven have trunked to instead?

  Sam rapped on the door. It’s dinnertime okay.

  No answer. Yet the basement felt different, emptier somehow. Sam pressed his ear to the door, heard only wood.

  Outside the light was shifting, the sprinkler hissed and sputtered across the lawn. And time’s machine was still silent.

  Sam said, Okay I’m nuking di
nner.

  He carried the dead bird upstairs, struck by the weightlessness of it, a pocket of air wrapped in feathers, and put it in the kitchen trash. From the freezer he took two trays of nuclear dinners, punctured the cellophane lids with a knife, and while they were nuking he took the knife in his fist as a murderer might and stabbed twice at the air. He pressed the blade into his fingertip, felt the sharp prick, pushed until it punctured the skin and a droplet of blood swelled and ran down his finger in a twisting ribbon.

  With the nuked dinners stacked in one hand and the knife in the bloody other he went back downstairs and stood before the armoire and said, I have your dinner but I cut myself okay.

  No reply.

  Sam closed his fingers around the handle of the knife and made a stabbing pose. He said, I cut myself, I need your help, come on out. Help me.

  The sprinkler on the lawn stopped. The silence was absolute.

  Raven I’m just trying to do the work okay. You stopped time’s machine before the third hand came all the way around. Monday the work’s over though right Raven? I’ll let you out then. But I need your help okay. Please Raven. Please okay?

  Nothing.

  Sam went at the armoire with the steak knife: he stabbed, the handle snapped, Sam kept stabbing the door clutching just the blade. Blood ran down his arm and smeared his fingers and he kept stabbing and scraping, shearing wood from the door, saying, Help me, help me, help me.

  He stopped. The pain in his hand was a sharp wet twang and he uncurled his fingers with difficulty. He’d buried the blade into his palm, he had to wiggle it out, the sound it made was gristly. The blood was sticky and hot and everywhere. Sam took off his three watches, lay them side by each on his bed, the third hand stuck at nine. Then he wrapped his wounded hand in ducktape, thinking as he did of Adine’s face in the hospital, swathed in bandages, the eyes hidden somewhere deep inside, seeing nothing.

  CAN I GET you a drink, said Wagstaffe. Or something to eat — sausages maybe?