Dream London

by Tony Ballantyne

  The door to the restaurant swung open and we all looked towards it. The restaurant was long and thin; in old London style it was the front and back room of a terraced house knocked into one.

  Two children stood there, a boy and girl of about ten years old, both dressed in long black coats concealing whatever they wore beneath. They both carried cases. Musical instrument cases.

  “Not here,” said Amit. “In the hall. Over the road!”

  The two of them nodded and turned to go.

  “Hold it!” called Amit. “What did you tell your mother, Alison?”

  The girl spoke with calm assurance.

  “We said that we were going to the free jazz session at the Mill.”

  “Good. Good girl.”

  “Thank you, Mr Singh.”

  The door swung shut.

  “This is most excellent, Mr Achmed,” said Mr Monagan, taking another mouthful of poppadum. “Truly, you are an inspired restaurateur!”

  “Not through choice.” said Achmed/Amit. “I used to be in the same line as Captain Wedderburn.”

  “Then you must have been a generous man indeed! I have never known such a man as Captain Wedderburn! I count myself lucky to have met him.”

  Amit looked from Mr Monagan to myself.

  “Yeeees,” he said. “Well, Jim, Dream London likes its Asians to dress like this and run curry houses. How do you think I feel about this?”

  “Delighted, I should imagine.”

  “Hilarious as ever I see, Jim. Well, it’s because of these clothes that I’m helping you out. I got a message tonight saying you were on the way. I couldn’t believe it at first, but I suppose it makes a certain sort of sense. The outside world seems to have recruited a lot of us.”

  “Have they, indeed?”

  I broke off a piece of poppadum myself and spooned a little red onion over it. It tasted hot and acid, not particularly nice. I swallowed and poured myself a glass of water.

  “What happened to you, Amit?”

  Amit became serious.

  “Have you heard of Daddio Clarke and the Macon Wailers?”

  “Who hasn’t?” I looked at Mr Monagan, lost in a trance of ecstasy. “What do you know about the Daddio?” I asked, carefully.

  “Very little,” said Achmed. “It’s strange, is it not, that no one had ever heard of him until Dream London began? His men swept all before them, including my humble little operation.”

  “Have you met the Daddio?”

  “No. He works through intermediaries. Have you seen inside the mouth of those people?” He shivered.

  “I’ve seen one of his Quantifiers. And this little girl...”

  “We met his Quantifiers. And there used to be an old woman. Evelyn Macaroons. She was evil...”

  He broke off a piece of poppadum.

  “I don’t think the Daddio comes from around here,” he said. “I think he came down the river, like so many others. That’s what my new employers suggest, anyway.”

  “Your new employers?” I let the words hang in the air a moment. “And who would they be?”

  “You think that the Americans are the only ones who have an interest in what is happening to Dream London? The Indian government has observers here as well, James. The Commonwealth left us with a route into this country, and here we are to exploit it.”

  “You work for the Indian government?”

  “Oh, come on Jim. Don’t act so surprised. You work for the Americans. We’ve all been gathered up, all the rogues and criminals. All of us with more charm than conscience. Dream London loves us, it changes us less than others. The outside world governments are fighting fire with fire.”

  I suppose that made a certain sort of sense. Other countries would have sent spies into Dream London. But... “What do the Indian government hope to gain?”

  “There are long forgotten cities within the subcontinent that lie choked by the jungles. What you westerners now call the rainforests, for it is racist to use the wrong name, is it not? There are those who have visited those long crumbled cities, where the monkeys now walk the streets and nest in the houses, and they have noted the towers that once soared up above the treetops and now lie in ruins on the jungle floor, and they note the similarity with Dream London, and they wonder, has this happened before? More to the point, will it happen again?”

  “And that’s why you’re helping me?”

  “Let us say for the moment that the American government’s aims are the same as those of the Indian government. And happily, for the moment, their wishes coincide with mine! So, I am here to help! What would you say, James, if I were to tell you I could get you up onto the Writing Floor?”

  “What would it cost?” I asked.

  “For you, James, no charge! Be grateful that I have someone who is in my debt who can perform that service. He was a useful man, until he went to pieces.”

  “Who?”

  “Rudolf Donati.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Not at all. Eat your meal and then we shall go and visit him.”

  THE CURRY WAS brightly coloured and gut churningly hot and as about authentic as Amit’s Indian dress. It popped and sizzled inside as we were led up the stairs at the back of the restaurant. The stairs began to spiral around themselves, the walls became circular.

  “We’re climbing a tower,” said Mr Monagan, delightedly.

  “Of course,” said Amit. “Rudolf is my prisoner, and where else would one keep a prisoner other than at the top of a tower?”

  “I thought he worked for you,” I said. “He handled your accounts, didn’t he?”

  “He still does. He tried to betray me, and so we took steps to ensure he couldn’t do that again.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Take a look for yourself,” said Amit, pushing open the door.

  SIX

  RUDOLF DONATI

  RUDOLF WAS A man in pieces.

  His head lay on the pillow of the great frayed four poster bed at the centre of the room. His legs stood by the side of the bed, ready to go, his heart beat on a white plate on the bedside table; a plate with the same willow pattern as the ones our curry had just been served on downstairs. His body hung in the wardrobe, clearly seen through the open door. His arms were folded in the centre of the bed.

  All the parts of his body were connected by long, pulsing, purple cords.

  “Hello,” said Rudolf, brown eyes turned towards the doorway.

  “Rudolf Donati,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You know him?” said Mr Monagan, in an awestruck voice. “Mister James! I think you know everyone.”

  “Not quite everyone,” I said. “So, Rudolf. I’m guessing that the gambling got out of control again?”

  Rudolf raised his eyebrows. I suppose that, just being a head, he had had to learn new ways to express himself.

  “Not out of control, just an unlucky streak.” He waggled his eyebrows in the direction of Amit. “I got into debt with these gentlemen.”

  “He tried to run away,” said Amit. “Now we have him by the balls.”

  “He keeps them locked up in the cabinet over there,” said Rudolf. I followed the two purple threads that led from the body in the wardrobe to the cabinet in the corner and winced.

  “Mr Donati worked in Angel Tower as an actuary,” said Amit. “He still has a lot of influence over the place.”

  “An actuary!” I said. “How could you work there? Didn’t the numbers drive you mad?”

  “Not if you understand what’s really happening up there,” said Rudolf. “Dream London isn’t a fantasy, Jim, it’s science fiction.”

  “That’s enough of that,” said Amit. “They want to get Captain Wedderburn here up to the Writing Floor. You’re going to help them.”

  “Sure I will,” said Rudolf. “Right after I’ve finished scratching my nose.”

  “He thinks he’s funny,” said Amit.

  “Humour is the only weapon I have in this posi
tion.”

  “It’s a blunt weapon. Listen, Rudolf. I’m going to let you out for the day. Would you like that?”

  “Aren’t you afraid he might just run away?” I said.

  “Thanks, Jim!” said Rudolf. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Amit. “We’ll keep his liver and kidneys. He’ll have to come back here to be reattached to them. If he wants to go on living, that is.”

  I frowned. “How did you learn to do all this?” I asked. “How did you learn to take a man apart?”

  “From careful application to the writings in the public libraries and reading rooms,” said Amit. “From the scriptoriums and the bibliotechs that are opening all around the city. It’s amazing what you can find if you look hard enough amongst all the junk.”

  “What junk?” said Mr Monagan.

  “What junk? Have you read anything in this city, my orange friend?”

  “I only arrived here yesterday.”

  “Ah, then you won’t have had a chance to read all that second-rate poetry that people keep writing. Every word ever written in this city is copied down and distributed amongst the libraries and bookshops. Every note played on every instrument is written on manuscript and mixed in amongst the other sheet music. What better way to dilute the culture of our former world than by mixing it with the mediocrity of the masses?”

  “No,” said Rudolf, in the weary voice of someone who had tried to explain this many times before. “You don’t understand, Amit. That’s not how it works. There’s no need for that, not when the 839th floor is rewriting everything all the time. He’ll see that tomorrow if you let me take him there.” He nodded at me.

  “But why?” I asked. “Why are they doing it?”

  “I told you, this is science fiction,” said Rudolf. “Dream London is a place where the normal rules of the universe no longer apply. Angel Tower is the place where the rules are rewritten.” You could hear the frustration in his voice. “I’ve told Amit this many times.”

  “And I think you’re wrong, Rudolf,” said Amit, in bored tones.

  “I’m not. Your governments are all looking at this in the wrong way. You’re treating this as a fantasy. You see these towers rising up and you want to seize your swords and cut your way to the top, kill the dragon and free the princess!” His eyes were fixed on me now. “That’s the American way, isn’t it? Well, I’m telling you now: forget the towers, look at the parks!”

  “What’s in the parks?” I asked, remembering the paths and roads I had seen from Bill’s satellite pictures. I thought of the glorious gold and white fairytale castle that Buckingham Palace had become...

  “I don’t know what’s in the parks,” said Rudolf, rather weakly. “But that’s where you should be looking.”

  Amit had had enough.

  “Enough talking, Mr Donati. Now, I’m going to ask Mr Monagan and Captain Wedderburn to leave whilst I begin the process of putting you back together. Captain Wedderburn, where would you like to meet Mr Donati tomorrow?”

  “How about at Angel Street station, seven thirty?”

  “I’ll be there,” said Mr Donati. “Oh, and don’t wear that suit. Wear your your normal clothes. Your Captain Wedderburn clothes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will make things easier.”

  “But then they’ll know who I am!”

  “Of course they will,” said Rudolf, his frustration obvious. “Lying here all the time gives you time to think. You should all try it sometime, instead of simply rushing off to get yourself killed.”

  “People have gone to some trouble to provide me with a cover story,” I said. “All so I could get into Angel Tower. You want me just to abandon that?”

  If Rudolf had had a body he’d have thrown his head back whilst he laughed at me. “You don’t get it, Jim, do you? You think that they want you because of your leadership abilities? You’re a fool. You’re nothing more than a good looking thug, and they know it. People only follow you because of your looks. That’s the way things work in Dream London.”

  “Lying in a bed has made you bitter, Rudolf,” I said.

  “Lying in a bed has given me clarity,” said Rudolf.

  “Enough chat,” said Amit. “Off you go. I need to resurrect him. Oh, and make sure you get him back here by five at the latest tomorrow. He will be feeling quite sick by then, and it will take time to reattach him to his vital organs.”

  “Very well.”

  “I have a question,” said Mr Monagan, holding up his hand. “Before we go. Do you mind, Mister James?”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. Amit raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Tell me, Mr Donati,” said Mr Monagan. “What did you do to upset Mister Amit so much?”

  “I’ll answer that,” said Amit. “Mr Donati is a man who can make numbers dance. Only when Dream London came, the numbers stopped dancing for him, and then we saw the truth.”

  “And then I tried to run,” said Rudolf.

  “And we caught him and brought him here, and he ran away again. That wasn’t very wise, was it, Mr Donati?”

  “Not when every train that you ride out brings you back in again,” said Rudolf. “Dream London is impossible to escape from. Things can come in, but nothing can get out.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, perhaps it would be better put that nothing can escape from Dream London.”

  The head on the bed had a way of tilting itself back and forth. Now it tilted to me, and Rudolf Donati was looking at me with big liquid brown eyes and smiling.

  “Nothing can escape, James. What does that remind you of?”

  “What?” I said.

  Rudolf wasn’t listening.

  “What puzzles me is how time is passing out in the old world. Does everything seem to be moving a little slower in Dream London? Perhaps you could ask the Americans about that.”

  AMIT LED US from the room and back down the spiral staircase. I was sure it had grown a few steps since we had come in. In the restaurant two boys were looking at something in shiny black cases that had been set out on the restaurant tables. When they saw us, the black salwar kameez-clad waiters hurriedly snapped the cases shut, but not quickly enough. I’d had a good look at the polished brass instruments inside. Trumpets or cornets, I can’t tell the difference.

  The two boys folded their hands together and smiled at us sweetly as we walked by.

  “What are they doing here?” I asked. “What are you planning?”

  Amit just smiled.

  “Alright, don’t tell me. You look ridiculous in that turban, you know.”

  “I’m just grateful to remain above ground, James. Haven’t you noticed there are less of us ethnic types around?”

  I was about to ask him what he meant, but Amit held open the door for us.

  “I hope that you will return soon to experience the cuisine of the East.”

  “Oh, thank you!” said Mr Monagan. “Truly, that was the most delightful meal I have ever experienced!”

  Amit shook his head in disbelief.

  I frowned and followed Mr Monagan into the alley.

  WE WALKED IN silence, back towards the main streets. Mr Monagan hesitated. He looked to our right.

  “I can feel something,” he said. “Something over there...”

  I realised where we were.

  “That’d be the Spiral,” I said. I took his arm. “Come on, it’s late. We don’t want to get pulled towards that. Not now.”

  We walked on. High above, in the narrow slit between the two buildings, the stars were out in an inky blue sky.

  “What now?” asked Mr Monagan.

  “We go home to bed,” I said. “You have a busy day tomorrow, looking after Belltower End. And so do I.”

  “I think I will need a little something to eat first, Mr James.”

  “Something to eat? You just had a curry!”

  “I know, and very nice it was too. But I shall need a little something extra
before I go to bed.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. He must have had a high metabolism, given how strong he was.

  “There’s an all night café on the way back,” I said.

  “No need, Mr James. I can see a trail of ants over there. I’ll follow them to their nest. That’ll keep me going.”

  “You eat ants?” I said. “Of course you do.”

  “I prefer water termites,” said Mr Monagan, seriously. “The nests used to grow at the edge of the swamp. My mother taught me where to dig into them so we could take some of the termites without disturbing the others.”

  “What’s so good about water termites?”

  “They harvest from both the water and the land. Their meat is a mixture of surf and turf. Utterly delicious!”

  The orange man seemed to glow at the declaration. Then he shook his head, sadly. “It’s a shame, but they’re no more.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Republican ants. Ants which use the power of the river to break free from their caste. They overthrew their hive’s queen and caused things to be run to their benefit. They grew stronger and cleverer. They wiped out all the poor water termites.”

  The power of the river. That was an interesting phrase. Was that how Mr Monagan chose to explain the changes?

  THERE HAD BEEN a storm at the Poison Yews in my absence. I returned to find the Sinfield family blown to the extremities of the house.

  Anna met me in the hallway, a red circle imprinted on her lips.

  “So you came back a second time,” she said.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “In the drawing room with Shaqeel. Mother’s in the kitchen.” Her face remained impassive. “There’s been a huge row. I’d stay in your room if I were you.”

  “I need to see Alan.”

  I made my way to the drawing room. Alan and Shaqeel sat side by side on a large chaise longue, not touching. Shaqeel wore a deep, self-satisfied grin.

  “James,” said Alan. “You missed dinner.”

  “I wasn’t hungry. Not after lunch.”