Dream London

by Tony Ballantyne

  There were little shops all around here, specialist shops catering to all sorts of people. Shops of all sizes, pushed together, single item shops selling nothing but razors, or caged birds, or walking sticks, or polished stones, or scrolls, or umbrellas, or beetles. One of them caught my eye and another idea occurred to me. Another way to recruit support. I pushed my way into its bright interior. Thousands of Captain Wedderburns looked down at me, turned their backs on me, looked off in other directions.

  “Yes sir,” said the little man sitting behind the tall desk.

  “Good morning,” I said. “I’m afraid I need to steal a small mirror off of you.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir,” he said, reaching beneath the table, “but I’m armed. You are standing in the focus of all my mirrors. I press this switch and I open a hatch that will allow the ingress of the sun. Happily, my mirrors are arranged to direct its full glare upon you.”

  I looked around the mirrors, in gilt frames, iron, glass, wood, jewelled, polished, bevelled, plain, decorated.

  “You’re lying,” I decided. “But I have to hand it to you. You’ve got guts. More than most people in this city.”

  “Fucking twats, the lot of them,” agreed the little man. He pointed to a little mirror by my side. “Take that one over there, and I wish you every bit of bad luck I can.”

  “If I had money I’d pay you.”

  “If I had a gun I’d shoot you.”

  I’m sure he was telling the truth. The man was clearly disturbed, no doubt the effect of sitting in here watching himself all day. A man who knew himself too well was liable to go off the rails. After all, it had almost happened to me earlier that day.

  “Listen,” I said, stuffing the mirror in my pocket. “I’m raising an army. If you want to do something to help, be in Snakes and Ladders Square at sundown. I could use a man like you.”

  “Isn’t that where the party will be?”

  I was surprised to see that my rumour had reached the shop before me, but that’s Dream London for you.

  “That’s the place. All the whores you can handle.”

  “I can only manage one at a time,” he said. “But I can still give a good account of myself.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. I’ll see you there, then.”

  Outside, the afternoon sun was bright and yellow and way too big. I pointed the mirror to the sky and flickered it back and forth, signalling the satellite. They had seen my message about the Contract Floor. I hoped they would still pay attention to me.

  THE SUN ROLLED up the morning sky and down the afternoon. I walked the streets, passing news of my fictitious party to whoever I met.

  The shops thinned, and I made my way through a section of porcelain-faced houses. Squat towers like sail-less windmills peeped over the surrounding houses, gazing at me with blank windows. I was thinking about giving up on this area and seeking out one more populous when I saw a crowd of people ahead of me. I hurried towards it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a man in ragged grey overalls.

  “I don’t know,” he said, eyes cast down to the ground. “We were told to come and wait here. We’re being transferred to another workhouse.”

  Now he said it, it was obvious who these people were. The downcast glances, the air of shame, the loss of pride. These were Dream London’s outcasts, the dispossessed, the forgotten. Imprisoned these past few months behind the grey walls of the workhouses, they had been stripped of their few remaining possessions, their dignity, their last vestiges of any fight. The men and women stood separately, the children hanging on to the grey skirts of their mothers, pale faces turned away from the sun.

  “Who’s in charge here?” I asked.

  “Master Hodgson,” said the man, nodding.

  Master Hodgson was dressed in shabby leather breeches and a frilled white shirt. He looked like a cut price copy of the man Captain Wedderburn would have become, had he not given up his former ways.

  “Good day,” I said, nodding.

  “Good day.” Master Hodgson eyed me with caution. I recognised his type. He was deciding whether to be bully or sycophant. I helped him to decide.

  “What are these people doing here in my street?” I demanded.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, touching his forehead. “Master’s orders. These are the inmates of Greendock Workhouse. They’re being transferred to another world.”

  “Another world?” I said. “Explain yourself, man!”

  “The parks are opening,” said the man. “We were told to be ready at sundown.”

  Now I noticed the railings he stood by. I had thought that we were standing near a stretch of wasteland, brambles tangling at the fence that bordered the street. And perhaps this morning we would have been. But now I came to look, I saw the way the railings seemed to be coming to life. The metal at the top was old and rusted, but down at the ground the railings seemed to burst with green painted newness.

  “The parks are coming through,” said Master Hodgson. “They’re breaking into Dream London.”

  “And what do you think will be waiting in the parks?” I asked.

  “Who can say, sir? New employers, waiting to take these people into their service. That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

  “And you’d hand these people over to whoever is waiting through there, would you?”

  “Just doing my job, sir. Just doing my job.”

  His expression was one of complacency.

  “If you were half a man you’d let them go, rather than force them through there.”

  “Let them go where?” asked Master Hodgson. A grin formed on his face, the nasty little smile of someone who thought he was about to do something clever. He turned around to his charges. “Hey, Lightfoot!” he called. “You’re free. Off you go.”

  “Go where?” said Lightfoot, eyes downcast with shame. “Where should I live? What would I eat?”

  “Go to Snakes and Ladders Square!” I said. “There’s going to be a huge party there at sundown. Free beer and women!”

  “And after that?” said Lightfoot. “Where shall I go then?”

  “Well...”

  Hodgson looked back at me in petty delight.

  “There’s thirty-six of them here, sir. I’d be happy to hand them over to you if you feel you can look after them. You know, feed them, clothe them. Make sure the little kiddies have somewhere to sleep.”

  “Yes, but...”

  He grinned, and a little bit more of the bully reasserted itself.

  “Or perhaps you’d prefer to leave this to people who can actually do something? It’s all very well to talk about helping the poor, Sir. It’s only those that have the money that can actually do something though, isn’t it?”

  I gazed coldly at the man.

  “There’s no need to look at me like that. I was only speaking the truth. Or do you disagree?”

  There was more to it than that, I was sure, but I couldn’t think what else to say. In the end I settled for calling out to the crowd.

  “Listen, you people. There’s going to be a party at sundown in Snakes and Ladders Square. Come there if you can! We could change Dream London!”

  A few of them looked at me, most of them looked away.

  I took a last look at the fresh green paint that rose further up the railings, and then I was on my way.

  I WALKED ON into the evening. In the past few days I had sought privacy and the streets of Dream London had been full. Now I was actively seeking people the streets were nearly empty. The few people I saw were always in the distance, hurrying away on their own business, and I wondered if somehow Angel Tower was seeking to frustrate me. At around six o’clock I emerged into a leaf-blown square.

  A square of tall narrow houses. Dried leaves danced in circles; they filled the narrow spaces outside the downstairs flats, leaving the occupants with half-drowned views of the world, they clung fluttering to the iron railings that lined the spaces before the buildings. They lapped the bottom
of the wide flight of steps that ascended from the far side of the square to the doorway of a large church. A group of people stood on the steps. Tramps, waiting for hot soup to be served from a little trolley. The smell of the soup set my stomach rumbling and I was about to turn around and walk away, but someone noted my distress.

  “Sit down, mister. Sit down here a moment and take a rest.”

  The man who spoke wore a long beard and trilby hat. His clothes were old and worn, but they looked to have been of fine quality once upon a time.

  I felt so tired I slumped down on the steps next to him.

  “Would you like some soup?” he said. He had a lovely voice, one that put me in mind of some old academic.

  “No, please. Keep it away from me.”

  The man looked at me wisely.

  “You could always suck on a pebble. It’s said to help.”

  “Thank you,” I said drily. “If I see a suitable one I’ll be sure to try it.”

  The man laughed. I sat back and looked up the steps at the building that sat at the top.

  “Does it seem familiar to you?” asked the man.

  I shook my head. I felt so tired, so exhausted.

  “It’s St. Paul’s Cathedral,” said the man. “A lot smaller, it’s true, and the dome has almost gone, but that’s St Paul’s Cathedral.”

  I stared at building. Now I looked it did seem vaguely familiar, but not like St Paul’s. More like the church of my childhood, the one my mother had forced me to attend. It had the same shabby doors, the same noticeboard on the wall by the side of the door with the bright cheap posters pasted one on top of the other.

  “It doesn’t look like St Paul’s,” I said.

  “Oh, but it is,” said the man. “I should know. I’ve followed it through the city this past year. Watched it as it shrank and shed parts. Watched the dome as it turned to a pyramid, and then into a steeple. I’ve slept on these steps every night so that it can’t slip away from me.”

  “Slept on the steps? Why?”

  “Because Dream London mixes up our heritage and cuts us off from the past. Buildings drift and are shuffled, roads are tangled and unwound, bridges change direction overnight. If I hadn’t followed it, this building would be lost by now, just another shabby ex-church lost in the city.”

  I stared at the man.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that I haven’t met many people in this city who think about more than their balls or their belly.”

  The man shrugged.

  I looked at him, searching his face for signs of understanding.

  “I’m raising an army,” I said. “I’m trying to overthrow Dream London.”

  “Good idea. Where do we muster?”

  “Snakes and Ladders Square.”

  “When?”

  “At sundown.”

  The man laughed.

  “You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?”

  “Better late than never.”

  The man laughed again.

  “Well, good luck with that. I won’t be coming myself, but if I meet anyone in the next couple of hours who I think might be interested, I’ll be sure to tell them.”

  I laughed.

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  I looked back up at the shrunken shell of St Paul’s.

  “I don’t think so. It’s been good just to take a rest.”

  “Can I give you some advice?” said the man.

  “Please do.”

  “You’re going into battle tonight. You need to prepare yourself.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “A wash and a change of clothes at the very least.”

  “That would be nice. How do you suggest I do this?”

  “See the street over there? Papillon Street? Half way down there is a blue door. The lady there is most obliging. Tell her that Crispin Welander sent you.”

  All of a sudden, a bath was just what I needed.

  “It’s very tempting,” I said, “but I can’t just knock on someone’s door and ask for a bath.”

  “I think you can,” said Crispin. “You see, I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.”

  “What do you mean.”

  Crispin pulled open his jacket. I saw a yellow scroll of parchment tucked into the inside pocket.

  “You too?” I said.

  “I don’t believe in fortunes,” said Crispin, apologetically. “Unfortunately, they seem to believe in me.”

  I LEFT THE square and walked down Papillon Street. The houses here had an air of fading prosperity. The large front doors bore two or three bell pushes, indicating that the interiors had been split into flats. The air felt still, there was no sound, and I felt very much alone. No, not quite alone. A ginger cat sat watching me from a window ledge.

  “Hello there,” I said.

  There was another cat just below the window ledge, a large tabby that sat licking its paws. And another cat, just slinking up from behind me. Now that I looked the street was full of cats, all of them apparently just passing through, and all of them watching me.

  I came to the blue door half way down the street and paused. A cat sat inside a window by the door, watching me.

  I was about to turn and walk away when the door opened.

  Miss Elizabeth Baines stood there, beaming at me.

  “Captain James Wedderburn,” she said. “Here you are at last!”

  FOURTEEN

  33 PAPILLON STREET

  MISS ELIZABETH BAINES’ house was filled with cats. They walked the corridors, they sat on the seats, they ate from little saucers placed on the floor.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Captain Wedderburn.”

  “Like what, Miss Baines? And it’s not Captain any more, it’s just James.”

  “James. I’ve always liked the name.” She smiled at that and half closed her eyes. “James,” she repeated. Then she came out of her reverie and grinned.

  “Don’t look at me as if I’m some sort of sad old cat lady, James.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Really,” she said, “these aren’t my cats.”

  “You allow them in your house...”

  “There are many cats around here. So many strays since the changes began. They seem to think that I can look after them.”

  Miss Elizabeth Baines seemed different on her home turf. That was normal. But what was it about her? She was dressed in the same spinsterish way. Very female, skirt and blouse and make-up, but with every inch of skin covered and nothing left for the imagination.

  “Why do they think that you will look after them?” I asked, looking around. The house was exactly as I would have imagined, from the little flowery pictures on the walls to the lace antimacassars on the back of the chairs.

  “Why do they think I will look after them?” asked Elizabeth, drily. “Heaven knows. The word seems to have got round the locality. Perhaps the cats talk to each other? Who can tell nowadays?”

  “But even so, you still look after the cats.” I gazed at her, and something occurred to me that I should have thought before: that Dream London liked to push people into roles, but that some people were better than others at fighting back. Dream London changed the houses, the clothes, the fortunes, but some people resisted. That’s what I could see in Miss Elizabeth Baines’ eyes – resistance. I should have thought of that before, but of course, Captain Wedderburn would never have thought of anyone but himself.

  “I didn’t used to be a virgin, you know,” said Elizabeth, matter of factly.

  “What?”

  She smiled at my reaction, and then she changed the subject.

  “The cats turn up at my house. What am I to do? I’m lucky enough to have a lot of money. I can afford to look after them.”

  “Aren’t there better ways to spend your money?”

  “Perhaps we could compare your charitable acts with mine, Captain? You wish to t
ell me about them? No?”

  She bent down and lifted up a cat that was pushing another aside to get at its food.

  “I leave them food and water,” said Elizabeth, putting the cat down next to another bowl. “Sometimes the cranes lower boxes of fish heads into the back garden. Someone at the docks seems to like cats and is helping me out.” She looked thoughtful. “Sometimes they lower a case of flowers as well. I think perhaps it’s not only the cats they are interested in.”

  “Who sends you flowers?” I asked.

  “Are you jealous, James?”

  “No!”

  That lopsided grin again. There was something about it that I found attractive

  “I have no idea who sends me flowers, James. Who knows what’s really going on in Dream London?”

  I had just been sent by a stranger from the shrunken remnants of St Paul’s to the house of the woman who had been stalking me the past few days. I think it fair to say that someone must know what was going on. Someone was orchestrating all of this. I thought of the group of people who sat on the Writing Floor of Angel Tower.

  “Doesn’t your garden smell?” I asked. To be honest, I was lost for anything else to say.

  “The cats are very clean. They can’t abide untidiness,” said Elizabeth. “Now, would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps something stronger. A beer perhaps?”

  “No thank you,” I said.

  “Perhaps you want to go straight to bed?”

  I was quite floored by her words: she spoke them so directly. I remembered she had made the same offer when I had been going to the brothel to meet Bill.

  “I don’t think I have the time...” I said, weakly.

  “Oh, James! You’re not going all shy on me, are you?”

  “No, I’m just...”

  “You strut around the city acting the big man, but when it comes down to it, you’re just a frightened little boy, aren’t you? I promise I’ll be gentle with you!”

  What was going on here?

  “Listen, lady...”

  “I told you, it’s not Lady, it’s Elizabeth... hold on.”

  She tilted her head. I heard it too. A plaintive mewing. Something was in pain.