“Every hour on the hour,” I said, a terrible longing creeping over me. Oh, to ride that train, out of this place! A question occurred to me. “But who would want to come here?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Bill. “Me for one. But don’t forget what I said. Dream London isn’t totally isolated. There are traders, ambassadors, people doing business. The city holds loved ones hostage to ensure that traveller’s return. They can ride the train because Dream London knows they will be coming back.”
“How does it know?”
She didn’t answer that question. She was searching through her photographs for another one.
“Come on. You have fifteen more minutes in here with me at most.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “No one will think it odd if Captain Jim Wedderburn spends an extra hour in a brothel.”
“You seem proud of the fact.”
“It’s a different world, Bill.”
“Do you want to stay part of it? Now, look at this picture.”
Another satellite photograph.
“A park,” I said.
“Green Park.”
Alan had shown me a picture of Green Park last night. It had been one of the smaller London parks, squeezed in between Hyde Park and St James’s. Never quite as busy as the others, it had been a pleasant pool of calm in the midst of the city. Not that I had visited it for some time now as I had been unable to find my way there through the ever changing streets.
What I now saw in the photographs, however, bore no resemblance to the past. It bore little resemblance to Alan’s picture. The park had grown enormously in the past five months. Lush green lawns had expanded so they must be at least a mile wide. Trees marched in neat lines either side of wide roads that strapped the place together.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a glorious gold and white building that looked like a cross between a fairy tale castle and a casino. It had spires, turrets, towers, windows... the lot.
“That was Buckingham Palace,” said Bill. “It’s grown much larger now, and it’s still changing. That shape in front of it was the Victoria Memorial.”
I remembered the memorial: a white sculpture of Queen Victoria and various angels, the whole surmounted by a golden sculpture of Victory.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“We don’t know. Yet. The figures are changing, growing. Look at the whole picture, James. What can you see?”
I looked, and it all became obvious.
“There are roads leading to the palace. Lots of them. But that’s not the biggest concentration of roads...”
The biggest concentration was just to the side of the palace, near the centre of the picture. Many roads, all converging on a point. They made me think of crop circles, of Celtic knots, pale green on green.
She was gazing at me, keenly.
“All those roads, leading to the middle of the park. What do you think it is?”
“It’s an entrance,” I croaked. “Everyone says that someone is preparing a way into the city. But from where?”
“We don’t know. Perhaps you can find out.”
Something moved in the corner of the room and Bill was suddenly in motion. The photos she had held fell spinning to the floor as she sprang from the chair, swooping down on the source of the movement, reaching out and snatching at something. She paused, and then slowly began to unwind something from a hole in the floorboards.
“What is it?” I asked. I was impressed by her speed, doubly so given the long skirts she wore.
She straightened up and I saw she was holding a peach and lemon snake, just below the head. The snake’s emerald green tongue flickered out, tasting the stale sweat of the room.
“Is this native to England?” she asked, and I laughed out loud. The snake was almost as long as she was tall; its back was decorated in concentric circles of colour.
“No,” I said. “I think it safe to say it arrived with Dream London.”
“I think it must have a nest beneath the floorboards here. I wonder what it’s seen in this room?”
“I can imagine,” I said, looking at the excess of pink paint on the pictures that hung on the walls.
“No need to be crude,” said Bill, and with a swift movement, she broke its neck. Carefully, she began to feed the snake’s body back through the crack in the floorboards.
“You could have got a good price for that, live.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, pushing at the snake. “It could have been spying on us.”
“A snake? I don’t think so.”
And I paused. Why not? How was I to judge what was possible in Dream London?
Something shifted inside me. For over a year now I had looked at the changes with a cynical eye. Even in the middle of my angriest moments over Christine and her leaving me, I had managed to feel a little pity for her, I had felt a little superiority that Dream London hadn’t ensnared me like everyone else.
I had walked through the twisting, changing streets, I had eaten the smoky, spicy new food, I had listened to the overly sentimental music, and I thought how little it had touched me.
Now, seeing myself through an outsider’s eyes, I realised how wrong I was. Dream London had been working its insidious way on me all along. Snakes couldn’t talk. Was that true? What else was I taking for granted?
Looking at Bill, looking at her pretty face, set hard with determination, I also had my first inkling of her bravery in coming here. I had had no choice. Here she was, acting as a prostitute, in the full knowledge that in three weeks’ time that might no longer be an act.
“Who do you work for?” I asked. “CIA?”
“You know I won’t answer that,” she said, and she straightened up, the snake disposed of.
“Okay,” I said, “I guess our time is almost up...” I got up and began to gather the photos she had scattered from the floor. I saw more scenes of Dream London, taken by satellite. A railway station, passengers and porters in uniform swarming across platforms; golden sands by blue waters, holidaymakers in striped bathing costumes eating ice creams by the Thames, the flower markets, scarlet and golden blossoms and the pollen hanging heavy in the air. A street scene...
“Hey,” I said. “That’s where I live!” I flicked through the pictures. “And here! And here. That’s Belltower End! You’ve been spying on me!”
“Of course we have,” said Bill, taking the photographs from me and replacing them in the leather folder. “Now, I’ve got something for you.”
She handed me a thick cream envelope.
“This is for you,” she said. “Don’t open it.”
I took the envelope. I could feel several thick pieces of paper inside.
“Those are your references and letters of recommendation.”
“For what?”
“Your new job. Tomorrow morning you begin your new job as junior clerk at Davies-Innocent. You’re going up to the Writing Floor of Angel Tower. That’s where the answers lie, we think.”
“What answers?”
“The contracts that signed the old London over to whoever it is that runs things now. We want you to see if you can find those contracts.”
“That’s if I decide to go,” I said. Nobody orders Captain Jim Wedderburn around.
Bill remained calm.
“Grow up, James,” she said. “Do you really think you’ll walk out of this situation? How long do you think we’ll let you live if you don’t follow through? You know too much. You’re part of this.”
I didn’t bother to put up any pretence. I knew she was right. It’s what I would have done. I tried another tack.
“But I know nothing about being a clerk!”
“So what? That sort of thing never stopped you in the past. Didn’t you once walk through Afghanistan dressed in a burqa?”
I passed the envelope from hand to hand, appreciating the luxurious feel of the paper.
“What about clothes and things? Don’t clerks wear suits?”
/>
“That will all be waiting for you at Alan’s house tonight.”
I nodded. Bill’s people had obviously thought of everything.
“How did you arrange all of this?” I asked.
“Through Alan. There are still a few lines of communication left to the outside world, but every month we lose a few more. Oh, something else. You’re now Alan’s nephew. He’ll tell you the details tonight.”
“What if I’d said no?” I said. “What if last night, when Alan met me, I’d said no?”
She smiled, sweetly.
“Actually, that wouldn’t have been such a problem. There are other people who we could have asked. Identity isn’t the problem it once was. That’s one thing we have going for us.”
That brought me up short. Just when I was starting to feel a little special.
“Now, look the other way,” she said, and as I did so I heard the swish of her skirts as she replaced the leather folder in its hiding place.
I gazed at one of the pictures on the wall. A naked woman, holding a yellow snake that bore more than a passing resemblance to the one that Bill had just killed.
“You can turn round now.”
I did so. Bill stood before me, no sign of the leather pouch, every inch a working girl.
“Okay. You can go downstairs now. Walk straight out of the pub and go back to the house. Margaret will be waiting for you there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow night, after work.”
“Where do we meet?”
“You come here of, course,” said Bill. “Where else would you go to celebrate your first day at work? I’ll be waiting for you.”
THREE
BELLTOWER END
I LEFT THE room and made my way downstairs to the pub. I could feel the eyes of the other customers upon me as I walked through the dingy taproom, and I wondered if they recognised me. Would they think Captain Wedderburn was sampling the competition?
I pushed my way into the bright June sunshine.
“Buy some spangled asparagus, mister? Put some lead back into your pencil.”
The woman on the market stall cackled as she thrust the vegetable into my face.
“No, thank you,” I said, pushing my way past her, touching the envelope in my pocket as I went.
I came to the corner of Hayling Street, and looked down into its green dappled depths. I heard parrots squawking down there. Everything seemed so calm and peaceful compared to the chaos of the market.
And I paused. Bill had told me to go back to the Poison Yews and Margaret, and here I was obeying her command...
Not twenty-four hours had passed since I had woken to the sound of salamanders munching a beetle. During that time I seemed to have lost control of my life. Well, maybe not lost control, but rather handed it across to Alan and Bill and some transatlantic conspiracy. A new home, a new job. I had walked out of Belltower End and my old life with barely a complaint.
Was I under some influence or other? There were stories all over Dream London of people losing control of their will. Every brothel had tales of women who had left their home and had been put under the influence, how they had woken up in a bed at the other side of the city as a working girl. Not that I had met any of those women. Every girl who worked for me did so of her own choice, more or less.
How much could I trust Alan and Bill?
More than I could trust Daddio Clarke, I supposed. The Daddio. I’d led his Quantifier to believe I was working for him. What would he think when he found out I’d disobeyed his instructions and had taken up with the Cartel?
I’d deal with that when it was time. For the moment, I wasn’t ready to go back to Alan’s house, despite Bill’s instructions. I had the afternoon to myself, and I had business of my own to attend to. I wanted to check up on how Second Eddie was managing in my absence. I was needed at Belltower End, the heart of my own little empire.
BELLTOWER END LIES just behind the location of a former tube station. The station itself is long gone, having wrenched itself from the ground, raising itself up on stilts to shuffle off and connect itself to the wider railway system.
Before the changes Belltower End had been a shabby place, barely touched by the large commercial chains. The scattering of shops and bars and cafés on the high street were mainly small businesses, just scraping along on the money earned from the locals, mainly people renting the single-roomed flats formed by dividing up the old houses.
Just off the high street itself there had been a gentlemen’s club: the Blue Parrot. This was the place where I had found work when I first returned to London. I started there as a bouncer, but a man with my charisma doesn’t stay at the bottom for long. Soon I was organising the other bouncers, looking after the girls, making sure that everything was nice and safe. After all, the ‘gentlemen’ would be more likely to spend their money in a safe, discreet environment.
Then the changes began. The atmosphere in the club became nastier, and the girls looked to me for protection more than ever. They asked me for advice, and I gave them it. I suggested another place they could work, and they took my advice with gratitude.
Don’t call Captain Wedderburn a pimp. I keep this area safe, I make sure that people can spend and earn their money in safety. Okay, I don’t tolerate competition – Luke Pennies would tell you about that – but then again, who does?
Belltower End was originally a terraced row of town houses, just by the church with the large belltower from which the area gets its name. The houses have grown taller now, like so much else in this city. They’ve hunched around themselves to form a horseshoe and grown yellow and scarlet ivy across their faces to disguise themselves. There are little balconies on the upper floors where the girls can sit, there are steps leading up to the doorways where they do the same. There’s a little garden in the square formed by the arms of the horseshoe, and a man can sit amongst the dark foliage and watch anyone who enters and leaves the area.
There were few people around at this time of day. A young black woman stood in the square, smoking a cigarette.
“Afternoon, Marie. Have you seen Second Eddie?”
“Sorry, Captain. I just got up. Busy night. I haven’t been on my feet for hours.”
He wouldn’t have gone far, I was sure of that. Second Eddie took his duties seriously, particularly where the girls were concerned.
“Tell him I’m looking for him,” I said. “I’ll try the Heights.”
If I was going to be away for some time, helping out Bill and the Americans, I needed someone to keep an eye on things. Second Eddie fancied himself as my deputy: I trusted him enough to not let things go wrong when I was away. I trusted myself enough to wrest back control should he get a little too ambitious.
“Okay, Captain,” yawned Marie.
There was a little girl sitting on the pavement, drawing chalk pictures. She tilted her head at me as I approached, blonde curls bouncing delightfully.
“Do you like my picture, mister?” she asked, with just a hint of a lisp.
I looked down at her. She was a pretty little thing; I didn’t recall seeing her around her before.
“It’s very nice,” I replied. She wore a pink silk dress that must have cost her parents quite a few dollars. Her pale arms were pudgy beneath the puffed sleeves.
“Would you give me a penny for it?”
“I shouldn’t stay here, little miss,” I said. “This is not a place for children.”
That’s when my mind finally registered what she had drawn. It looked like something Hieronymous Bosch might have drawn, if had he decided to turn his hand to hardcore pornography.
“What the...” I began.
“The Daddio sends his regards,” said the little girl. She stared up at me, open mouthed. I felt a shiver of horror as I saw two eyes set in her tongue, looking back at me.
She stood up. I guessed she would be about six years old.
“Did you draw this yourself?” I said, lo
oking down at the picture.
“The Daddio wants to know where you were last night. You didn’t return to your flat.”
“I... I was with a friend.”
“Ah! You were fucking a whore.” The little girl nodded wisely. “The Daddio said it would be something like that.”
Now, as you can imagine, Captain Jim Wedderburn has heard much worse language in his time. But hearing it from the voice of such a sweet little thing made it seem all the more obscene. I almost blushed.
“I bet your mother wouldn’t be pleased to hear you talking like that,” I said, weakly.
“My mother can go frig herself.” The girl reached up and patted my stomach. “Listen, the Daddio wants you to do something for him.”
“Does he now?” I said, rather weakly.
“You’re to go to the docks. The Daddio has a shipment coming in. Some new friends for you. You’re to bring them back here and set them up in rooms of their own. He’ll send further instructions on how you’re to pay the Daddio his cut of their earnings later on.”
“I don’t have time to go right now, sweetheart,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
The little girl smiled at me.
“You go now, or the Daddio will send someone to cut open your stomach and shit in it.”
She stuck her tongue out, and the two malevolent eyes there stared at me.
“That’s a pretty turn of phrase,” I said, carefully. “What’s your name, poppet?”
The little girl spread her pink skirt and performed a curtsey.
“My name is Honey Peppers and I am six and three-quarters years old.”
“Well, Honey, you can tell the Daddio that I am going to the docks right away.”
And at that I spun on my heel and set off at a great pace. I heard the flip of little footsteps behind me as Honey Peppers ran to keep up.
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