“As if that was something special.”
“I’m offering you my virginity, Captain.”
That floored me. Something about the expression that crossed her innocent face touched me, much more than the offer she had just made.
“Elizabeth, listen to me. I don’t know who sold you that thing, but you’ve been rigged. I’m not the sort of person that you want anything to do with, trust me on this! You really don’t want to be associated with me. Take my advice, Miss Elizabeth Baines, and take this scroll back to wherever you bought it from and have them exchange it for someone else. Do you understand?”
She blinked rapidly as I spoke, and I could see the little glistening hemispheres forming at the edge of her eyes. Unusually, I felt quite sorry for her. I think it was because, underneath her gaudy outfit and sensible make-up, she really was quite an attractive woman, though, as I have said, a little older than my tastes. Or was I just fooling myself in saying this? When was the last time a woman had liked me just for myself?
She composed herself and spoke in a little voice.
“I understand what you’re saying, James, but I don’t think you understand. I can’t simply swap this scroll for another. You are my one true love. How can there be another?”
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know and I don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading to the brothel. Good day, Madam.”
If I’d had a hat, I would have raised it. I pushed my way from the station entrance and through the evening market crowd, making my way to the Laughing Dog.
I couldn’t quite submerge the little unfamiliar feeling inside me, though. I felt ashamed.
IT WAS STUFFY and dim inside the Dog, especially after the yellow glow of the Dream London evening outside. I went straight to the bar and bought myself a pint of porter.
“Have you seen Bill?” I asked the barman, and as I did so I felt a hand slide onto my shoulder.
“Hello lover, fancy coming upstairs?”
Bill stood at my side, her red hair curling down to her bare shoulders.
She took my hand in hers and, pausing only for me to lift my glass from the counter, she led me up the stairs to the same room as yesterday.
The room had changed overnight. The wallpaper was now striped in a dusky pink that matched the bed covers.
“Is that bed larger than yesterday?” I said.
“I think so,” said Bill. “Never mind that. What did you find out?”
“Nothing! I’ve been stuck on the 829th floor all day looking at numbers.” Suddenly I felt tired and sick. My stomach felt as if it were filling with warm soapy water. My head was tight and hot with the new numbers I’d been looking at.
“What did you stay there for? Why didn’t you move up to the correct floor?”
“I can’t. You don’t know what it’s like in there. I gaze at the ledgers and the next thing I know, two hours have passed. I need to get up to the 839th floor. That’s where the contracts are.”
Bill placed her head in her hands.
“Shit, shit, shit. What the hell is going on here?”
I said nothing. She was a lot less impressive than she had been been when I met her yesterday. She had seemed so much more in control then. She seemed to realise what she was doing.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been out all day trying to find Green Park. You know how impossible it is to locate anything in this city?” She rubbed her temples. “This place is having an effect on me. I just know it.”
She looked at the bed, thinking.
“Right. This isn’t something for me to handle. We’ve got no access to the towers. It’s got to go through the Cartel. You’ll have to tell Alan to get you sorted out.”
“I tried telling Alan. He said...”
“Never mind what Alan says! You tell him that Bill is unhappy, and when Bill gets the message out to her friends, they’re going to be unhappy too. Shit!” She shouted out the last word. “Ask him if he realises just what we’ve spent on this, trying to put right the mess that you Brits have made?”
I’d had enough. First Honey Peppers, then Miss Elizabeth Baines, and now Bill Dickenson. Was every female I met that day going to order me around?
“That’s enough,” I said, raising my hand in warning.
The scorn dripped from her words.
“What are you going to do? Hit me?”
I wasn’t, as it happens.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said, lowering my hand, “but I’m tired of being told what to do.”
She laughed.
“Really? And what makes you think you get to choose what you do? What makes you think that any of us do? You’ll do what you’re told, Captain Wedderburn, if you know what’s good for you. You run along and tell Alan what I told you. Capiche?”
I’d had enough. I made to slap her face with the back of my hand – that’s the sort of thing Captain James Wedderburn usually does to keep his women in order...
... but the next thing I knew I was spinning around and landing heavily on my back on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t me. That was Dream London.”
“I know,” said Bill, smiling sweetly down at me. “That’s why I didn’t break your arm.”
“You can let go of me now.”
She smiled and stood up in a rustle of material. I rose from the bed, rubbing my arm.
“That was a good throw,” I said.
“Mmm. Here’s something else for you to think about, James. I’m only Plan B. Me, and all the other agents sent into Dream London.”
“Plan B. So what’s Plan A?”
“Plan A is the nuclear option. They’re aimed at the towers, right now. Missiles, bombs. There are more and more Hawks in the Pentagon saying that Dream London has grown big enough.”
“You’re saying they’d nuke the city, just to save themselves?”
“Why not? They almost carpet-bombed Algiers when they thought that someone had sold land to the other places. They would have done, too, if it hadn’t been for the Arab League blocking it. It turned out to be a good thing too. Someone was trying to set them up...”
“Yes, but nuclear weapons? What is it with you Americans?”
“What about us? I should point out that the French have been pushing to fire nukes for six months now. The only reason that the Germans stopped them was because they were worried about the fallout drifting their way. Don’t you get it, Captain Wedderburn? We Americans are the only friends you have.”
“I don’t have any friends,” I said, seriously. Actually, according to the scroll, I had two. One of them was Bill, and she was due to betray me. Perhaps the nuclear option was more likely than she was saying.
“I know,” said Bill, snapping her fingers. “Amit Singh. He might be able to help you.”
“Amit Singh,” I said. “How could he help?”
“You know him? Of course you do. He’s in the same line of business. Asian Babes, he calls his girls, doesn’t he? Well, his son was a hacker before the changes: got himself into trouble with the NSA, so they recruited him. Amit Singh was our line into Dream London until very recently, up until the microwave signals cut out.”
“Amit Singh was working for you?”
“You’d be surprised.” She nodded. “Yes. Go and see Amit Singh. He might be able to get you moved up to the next floor.”
She suddenly yawned and stretched, and I saw just how exhausted she looked.
“And now, I think you’ve had your money’s worth. Same time tomorrow night?”
She opened the door to the room at that.
“Same time,” I said, without any enthusiasm. I never thought I would say it, but I was becoming heartily sick of brothels.
ORANGE
ACHMED/AMIT
I WASN’T GOING to meet Amit Singh on my own.
I headed to Belltower End to look for Second Eddie. I hadn’t heard from him in some time, and that’s never a good th
ing. In my line of work, it’s difficult choosing a good number two. He has to be competent, but not so competent he might get ideas about taking over your role. Was Second Eddie off somewhere now, plotting his takeover? I thought of the Daddio, of Luke Pennies, of all the people who might make an offer to an up-and-coming young man...
The evening was warmer than ever, and I wished I wasn’t wearing such a dark heavy suit. The orange and pink parrots were building nests in the pollarded tops of the trees. Cloth and twigs, pieces of wire and lengths of lace and braid dripped from the uppermost branches in colourful profusion. Green beetles scuttled in lines along the drains, and I saw one artful salamander standing in the shadows of a shop doorway, watching them, biding its time.
I arrived in Belltower End towards the end of the after-work rush. Men in suits just like mine walked the streets, eyeing the merchandise. Every so often one of them would succumb to a beckoned finger and follow a woman up to her flat.
Gentle Annie sat on the bench by the garden.
“Good evening, Annie,” I said.
“Got any candy?”
I fumbled in my pockets. Even going to Angel Tower, I still carried it. You never knew when you might need some.
“I’m looking for Second Eddie,” I said, handing it across.
“Good luck with that, Captain. I haven’t seen him since last Thursday.”
I frowned. That wasn’t good news.
“Mind you,” continued Gentle Annie, “I shouldn’t worry about the old Tallywhacker so much.” Gentle Annie and Second Eddie had never got on that well. “Not now we have Mr Monagan. He’s a bit of a find! The girls have never met anyone like him! Such a gentleman! And so strict with the customers. We had one man earlier cutting it up rough with Slight Alice. Mr Monagan dealt with him quite firmly.”
“Mr Monagan?” I said, rather taken aback.
“Oh yes. He may be mild mannered, but he’s very strong and lithe. Comes of living in the water, I suppose. And he’s very definite about what he wants.”
“Mr Monagan?” I repeated.
“Oh yes. Even those new Moston Girls you brought here. They don’t give a damn about anything, they don’t listen to anyone. Except for Mr Monagan.”
“Mr Monagan?”
“That’s the frog.” She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, Captain, it’s because he hasn’t got a willy.”
“A willy,” I said, hoarsely.
“Yes,” said Gentle Annie. “A penis. A prick. A willy.” She smiled. “A beaver basher, a dong, a flesh flute, a John Thomas, a member, a pink oboe, a schlong, a wiener.” She leant in close and whispered. “A yoghurt gun.”
“I haven’t heard that one.”
“Really?” smiled Gentle Annie. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I said. Gentle Annie collected synonyms for penis, one for each customer.
“It’s those Moston girls, Captain,” she continued. “They have power over a man, power over what you keep in your trousers. All the girls here could say the same, to a lesser degree. But Mr Monagan, they have no handle on him. And he’s so nice!”
“Mister James!”
Mr Monagan appeared in the doorway to one of the flats, his orange skin glistening in the late evening sunshine.
“Oh, Mister James! It’s good to see you!”
He came running up to me in a strange, wide-legged gait, arms and feet flapping.
“Mister James! I can’t begin to thank you! Thank you for bringing me here, and introducing me to such lovely people. These ladies who work with you! I’ve never met such a wonderful, polite, well mannered, pretty and courteous bunch! To think that I’ve only been here in Dream London for a day and already I have a place to live and a job! And such good friends! Why, I feel like a human already!”
Gentle Annie’s face was a picture. She wore the smile of a seventeen-year-old virgin, not the world weary forty-something she really was.
“Well, Mr Monagan,” I said. “I think I could make your day even better. Do you fancy a curry?”
AMIT SINGH USED to run a gang out towards the east end of London, but then Daddio Clarke moved in and all rival gangs were destroyed, absorbed, or pushed out to other areas. The last I heard of Amit, his Asian Babes had mostly hooked up with other pimps and he was left running a small time operation from a curry house somewhere in the twisted streets around what used to be Whitechapel.
The evening was fading to inky blue as Mr Monagan and I made our way down a busy street, lined with cafés and restaurants. Mr Monagan was unreasonably excited at being asked out for a meal.
“A curry, Mister James! I’ve never had such a thing! Will it be too hot for me, do you think? Will there be plates and knives and forks, or will we eat it with our hands?”
“A little dignity please, Mr Monagan!” I said, aware of the looks we were getting from the other would-be diners who walked the street.
“Very well, Mister James.” He held his mouth closed for a while, but he couldn’t help himself. “Oh look! Curry restaurants! Do you think we will be able to have water if it’s too hot? Or should we drink beer? I’ve heard that’s better...”
“Mr Monagan! Act cool!”
The restaurants had sent hucksters to stand in the streets and persuade customers inside. One particularly brash young man with a gold hoop in his ear stepped up to us.
“Best curry in town, sir,” he said. “Free drink, ten per cent off the bill, and, to be honest, we need you in there! We have too many women tonight! Too many women in there!”
“Oh! Mister James, did you hear that? The best curry in town! We should go there!”
“I don’t think so,” I said, smiling.
“But Mister James! You heard what he said! And they will give us a free drink!”
“Mr Monagan, if you’re to live in Dream London, you must learn that not everyone tells the truth.”
“Hey!” said the huckster with the earring.
“Oh come on,” I said. “Are you going to call me a liar?
The huckster smiled and shrugged. Truth be told, I think he recognised that a bigger bullshitter than he would ever be was standing before him.
We walked on down the road, ignoring the calls from the other hucksters. Well, I ignored them. Mr Monagan kept tugging at my arm and repeating their claims to me.
Something tingled inside my mind. Danger. Someone placed an arm on my hand and I turned to see a gentleman in a turban. He wore a bright salwar kameez, a sash around his waist. And now other similarly dressed men were stepping out of the crowd, all dressed in brightly coloured clothes. One older gentleman stepped forward, placed his palms together and bowed.
“Sirs, please would you do us the honour of dining with us tonight in our humble restaurant, the Tale of India?”
I looked around the other Indian men. They may have looked like dancers from a Bollywood movie, but they had the faces and bodies of people used to fighting.
“Uh, I should be delighted,” I said.
The man beamed, his teeth white between his dark beard.
“Then follow me to a world of oral delight, where the spices of the orient shall excite your tastebuds!”
The Indians surrounded us, forming a path towards a nearby alley.
The man in the turban walked at my side.
“Call me Achmed,” he said.
“That’s not your name,” I said.
“No, but it is the role that Dream London has chosen for me.”
We walked by two large bins filled with rancid chicken parts. The smell was enough to make you retch. One of our escorts pointed upwards, and another pulled a bow and arrow from his clothes and fired into the darkening sky.
“Missed!” He swore beneath his breath.
I looked to see what he had fired at, and saw blue monkeys lined along the window ledges like birds.
“They come to steal the meat,” said Achmed, and I became aware that my feet were crunching on chicken bones.
The Tale
of India was a tarnished confection half way down the alley, one of several Indian restaurants, much poorer and more broken down than those on the street we had just left. A couple of tired pubs stood amongst them, together with something that looked like a church hall or community centre. I heard the sound of music coming from inside, and I tilted my head to listen.
“Isn’t that a brass band?” I said. “Funny, I haven’t heard one for ages...”
Or had I? I remembered the silver sound of the trumpet as I fell asleep last night. Anna practising her scales. The cornet, I should say. Anna had been keen to correct me.
We walked on, and I listened to the tattoo of the snare drum accompanying the band.
“Hold on, isn’t this Brick Lane?” I said. I felt the satisfaction a resident of Dream London does when they manage to stitch back together a little of the geography. “So this is where it got to!”
“It’s the bottom end of Brick Lane,” said Achmed. “The other end drifted off to Upton Park. Now, welcome to my humble business.”
He held open the door and ushered Mr Monagan and me into the restaurant.
I smelt curry, I saw red flock wallpaper, pink table cloths, golden decorated jugs, napkins folded into fans, wine glasses and menus in thick leather binders. It was a proper Indian restaurant, circa 1986.
A waiter dressed in black hurried up.
“Sirs, here is your table.”
There were poppadums waiting for us, together with a silver tray of dips: bright orange mango chutney, yoghurt, lime pickle and chopped onions in a bright red sauce.
Mr Monagan broke off the tiniest piece of poppadum and placed it in his mouth. His face was immediately transported to such heights of ecstasy I actually found myself worrying what the effect of the curry would be upon him.
Achmed sat down with us.
“Can I recommend the chicken tikka masala?” he said.
“I never had you down as a restaurant owner, Amit,” I said. It was funny that it had taken me that long to recognise him. Dream London seemed to change some people more than others.
“Ah! So you do know who I am! Well, I’m not a restaurateur. Or I wasn’t until six months ago. And it’s Achmed now, Captain Wedderburn. Dream London has its own roles in mind for all of us.”
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