by Guy Adams
‘Beheaded?’ Grace asked as the guards led them both in. ‘Is that an option?’
‘Who knows? It all depends on her hangover.’
Beyond the door was a bright, plastic corridor filled with the roar of the pumps that kept the castle upright. It was extremely difficult to walk, all four of them bouncing from one wall to the other as they tried to move forward.
‘Do you get used to this?’ Grace asked as she fell at the feet of one of the guards.
‘Used to what?’ he replied, bouncing on the spot.
The corridor veered to the right and they found themselves in the throne room. Fake, plastic sconces flickered with battery-powered bulbs; incense burned, a layer of pungent smoke hovering beneath the plastic ceiling and, in the corner, a tatty turntable played medieval music, the needle skipping every time someone tried to move.
The Queen was sat in a reclining leather chair, a large soda wedged into a cup holder in the arm. She looked to be in her early sixties but it was hard to tell as she’d clearly spent a good deal of her life living in doorways. Her hair was matted and wild, great horns of it, grey and white, stabbing upwards from her blotchy scalp. Somewhere in all of it, she’d managed to lodge a cardboard crown, the fast-food chain logo on it scribbled out in pen with QUEEN written over it in big capitals. Her face was wrinkled in the sort of way a bottom might be if you left it in a bath for a few weeks. She was poking at one of her remaining teeth with a fat finger, a mole on her upper lip writhing as if trying to find somewhere less awkward to be.
She was wearing a bright, satin frock but the effect was spoiled by the stained overcoat she wore over it, its pockets bulging, its lapels curled like winter leaves. Woollen, fingerless gloves poked out of the sleeves, one pink and one green, both smudged black at the palms.
She was, quite simply, the grottiest looking Queen Grace could imagine.
At her side, cleaning his fingernails with a knife better suited to gutting large wildlife, was an equally rough looking man. He was wearing a leather jacket several sizes too large and a Spider-Man T-shirt several sizes too small. His lower-half was almost covered by tatty long-johns, his knees poking out to grab some fresh air.
‘Say hi to the Queen, dudes,’ he announced, not looking up.
‘Hi, Your Majesty,’ Grace said, bowing as low as she could without losing her balance on the unreliable floor. She noticed God wasn’t bowing so she kicked him in the shin.
‘I’m God,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t it be weird to bow?’
‘You said it was important!’
‘I meant for you, I don’t want to give her ideas above her station.’
‘Just do it! Please!’
‘Fine,’ he gave a brief bow. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘Please don’t let the bowing deity thing go to your head.’
The Queen looked over to her aide. ‘Either he’s been drinking or I started again and didn’t notice. Did I start drinking again?’
‘No Your Majesty, I think it must be him.’
‘Please don’t be frightened,’ said God. ‘I am here as a benevolent God, accompanying my friend Grace. It’s her that seeks your help.’
‘You’re God?’ the Queen asked, chuckling in a manner that agitated years of accumulated phlegm.
‘The one and only, but as I say, this isn’t an official visit. You’re not dead or anything, I’m just here as a plus one.’ He took a step back, gesturing for Grace to move forward.
‘Hang fire, guy,’ said the aide, ‘you get a ticket?’
‘Absolutely,’ God replied, holding it up, ‘all official.’
‘Then you have to ask for something. That’s how it works.’
‘I have a request,’ said Grace, trying to bring things back on track.
‘Babe, I don’t doubt it, but the dude needs one too. You get a ticket you make a request, quid pro and status quo, you know?’
God rocked from side to side on the inflatable floor. ‘I really don’t want anything. I’m God, not wanting anything is part of the deal.’
‘Then you’re in contempt of the Queen’s court and must pay, like, a forfeit.’
‘Maybe I can think of something in that case...’ God scratched at his false beard. ‘My sandals are getting a bit tatty.’
‘Bro’! You can’t just make stuff up on the spot! You broke the rules, suck it up.’
‘Let the girl speak,’ said the Queen, spitting into her soda cup, ‘then we’ll decide what to do with both of ’em.’
Grace rubbed at her face in frustration. This was not going well.
‘I ask for passage to Rikers Island,’ she said. ‘You can’t get there by land at the moment...’
‘Damn right you can’t,’ said the Queen. ‘You seen what’s happened to Queens?’ She looked at her aide. ‘I hate that name, Corman, can’t we have it changed. I mean... it ain’t mine is it?’
‘You wouldn’t want it,’ Corman replied. He looked at Grace. ‘You know what the average lifespan is of people that enter Queens these days?’ She shook her head. ‘Eight minutes. Freakazoid, baby, they’re dropping like, you know, flies over there.’
‘Why do you want to go to Rikers, anyway?’ asked the Queen. ‘You done something wrong?’
‘My brother’s there.’
‘Since when? Before The Change?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he’s probably long gone. He’s likely dead, girl, you know that, yes?’
‘He’s the only family I have left. If you were me wouldn’t you try?’
The Queen laughed. ‘Kid, if my family were still alive, I’d be hunting them down with a crossbow right now. Blood don’t mean a thing. You make your own family in this world, you choose them and stick by them.’
‘I choose to stick by him.’
The Queen shrugged. ‘It’s a big ask, you know that? I mean, you want a boat and a free pass all the way up the river. That ain’t something I just give away.’
‘I’m willing to do whatever needs to be done,’ Grace stood as proud as possible given how much the room was moving.
The Queen looked at Corman. ‘We fed the babies this week?’
Corman’s face fell. ‘Really? You’re going to ask her to do that?’
‘It needs doing and nobody else is stepping up to the plate.’
‘Whatever it is,’ said Grace, ‘I’ll do it. No question.’
Corman shook his head. ‘Kid, you ain’t going to last long in this world with an attitude like that.’
‘You will enter Dreamland,’ said the Queen, ‘and you will feed the babies.’
‘Dreamland?’
‘Dreamland was one of the first amusement parks on Coney Island,’ said Corman, ‘since The Change did its thing it’s back. And weirder than ever.’
‘OK,’ Grace nodded. ‘What babies?’
‘You don’t know about the babies?’ the Queen asked. ‘Years ago, one of Dreamland’s exhibits was a room of babies in incubators. Back then they weren’t medically approved. So people brought their kids to the guy. Doctor... erm... whatever... don’t really matter... and they put them in these things. He saved a lot of kids’ lives.’
‘And made a lot of dough,’ added Corman.
‘But they’re hungry,’ said the Queen, ‘and they’re causing problems.’
‘Surely,’ said God, stepping forward, ‘if they’re in incubators then they don’t need food, aren’t they on tubes and stuff?’
‘You’ll see for yourself,’ said the Queen. ‘They’ve got a bit out of control. We should have them put down really but, well, they’re only babies. Sort of. In a way. Anyway. That’s the deal, take it or leave it.’
‘I take it.’
Corman sighed. ‘Poor kid,’ he said, ‘that’s harsh man.’
‘I’m Queen!’ she shouted. ‘And what I say goes. If you have a problem with that you can go with her.’
‘Surely if it’s that dangerous it’s not really fair to send her,’ said God.
‘But now you open your mouth, “God,”’ said the Queen, ‘we still need to decide what to do with you, don’t we? You broke the rules and now you’re trying to tell me my job. That sort of thing doesn’t go down well in The Queendom of Coney Island, boy, whoever you are. Your punishment will be severe. It will be savage. It will forever be spoken of in legend as a thing to give children nightmares. It will, in fact, probably be the death of you.’
‘I can’t be killed...’ God started to say but Grace interrupted him.
‘What are you going to do to him?’ she asked.
‘What do you think, kid?’ The Queen laughed. ‘He gets to go with you!’
Chapter Twelve
DREAMLAND OPENED ITS doors in 1904, the result of three and half million dollars—a staggering sum in those days—and a desire on the part of its owner, William H. Reynolds, to outdo the neighbouring attractions of Luna Park. It closed seven years later after a fire destroyed the majority of it. The fire was caused by an upturned bucket of pitch igniting the Hell Gate ride. The infernal irony was thicker than the insurance pay out and Dreamland dreamed no more.
In those intervening seven years it had seen zoos, freaks shows, thrill rides, dancing and drama. It was the very epitome of the American Dream, beautiful, aspirational, grotesque and ambitious.
Post-Change it had reoccupied its previous location off Surf Avenue, a fluctuating dream of a dream. A fifteen acre plot built on the fantasies and fears of every visitor who had ever danced in the ballroom, splashed in the lagoon or gazed in unashamed wonder at the diminutive residents of the Lilliputian village known as Midget City. It was the ultimate expression of how The Change had brought the architecture of the world to life, brought flesh to thoughts, horror to the mundane.
And Grace and God were going to go inside.
‘Dreamland?’ asked the owner of the Cyclone, a man they now knew as Ken Dante, onetime short-order chef and occasional petty crook. ‘Nobody with an ounce of sense would set foot in there.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Grace replied, washing another plate and handing it to God to dry.
‘You’ll both be dead before the day’s out,’ Dante clarified, should they have been unsure as to his opinion on the place. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘And we’re spending our last night on earth washing up your dishes,’ she said.
‘A debt’s a debt,’ he replied, ‘but I appreciate it. If you’d decided to leave it until after your mission for the Queen I’d likely have been down on the deal.’
‘I could just wave my hand,’ said God, ‘and they would all be clean. But sometimes...’
‘It’s good to experience things as mortals do,’ finished Grace.
‘Precisely,’ he agreed. ‘It gives me an excellent sense of perspective.’
‘He’s mad,’ Dante whispered to Grace, ‘you do know that don’t you?’
‘Who cares?’ she replied. ‘Do you know somewhere we might be able to sleep for the night? Apparently it’s even more dangerous if we go into Dreamland at night so we’re supposed to wait until first thing tomorrow.’
‘I can probably hook you up, it’ll cost you...’ He stopped himself. ‘What’s the point? You’ll never be able to repay me. I’ll look on it as an act of charity.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Hell, once we’re done I’ll even throw in a night out. The condemned deserve a good farewell.’
‘What sort of night out?’ God asked. ‘I mean, I’m pretty open-minded, whatever some people think, but still, I have to watch my reputation. God can’t be seen living it up in a strip-joint.’
‘Nothing wrong with a creator admiring his creation,’ said Dante, ‘but nah... there’s a party going on over at Edina’s, I was going to look in anyway so I may as well take you two along.’
Chapter Thirteen
EDINA’S WAS A raucous shack of neon and corrugated iron that had been constructed on the boardwalk. It threw its light and noise out towards the crashing ocean as if trying to lure unwary sailors. If any landed they would, at least, be assured a good time. The music was just shy of an act of warfare. The band attacked their instruments as if fighting for their lives; the resultant sound managed to be both euphoric and terrifying. The large crowd pogoing on the rudimentary dance floor frequently dived for cover as a wave of bass poleaxed the unwary.
The bar fizzed like a stick of dynamite. Bottles often as smashed as those trying to get their lips around them.
It was the sort of bar that reminded you of nature: potentially fatal chaos somehow holding itself together despite the lack of observable controlling factors.
Edina was six foot of muscles and weird bone structure, a weight lifter whose body twitched and flexed as if her taut skin were filled with piglets wired up to the mains. Every now and then she would lift up tables and seated clientele. The impromptu weights would invariably keep drinking even as their scalps touched the thatched roof. Clearly a degree of vertical shift was just something you accepted if you wanted to drink at Edina’s.
God was keeping his distance, sipping a glass of wine and watching as Grace jumped up and down on the dance floor. Dante had danced with her for a while then moved off to help himself to some of the barbecue that was hissing, smoking (and in some cases writhing) on a long griddle just along the boardwalk.
God made a great deal about wanting to understand the human condition but, of course, he wasn’t quite as naive as he pretended to be. He saw the stern, focused look on Grace’s face as she danced. He saw the ferocious energy she was trying to work off. Every move was an act of violence rather than joy. She was sweating, teeth clenched, feet stamping; it was fury with added rhythm. Grace was, unsurprisingly, a very screwed-up kid. She tried to hide it but here, when the beat was upon her, it showed clearly.
It was, or so it seemed to him, part of a God’s duty to help his children. Policies of non-intervention aside, he decided it was important that he tried to improve her lot. Restoring the world might be an ecclesiastical transgression too far but saving the soul of one good kid? That was far game, he decided. He’d stick with her and do the best for her he could.
GRACE TOOK A break from dancing at around midnight. Her legs and arms ached and she just wanted to find some air.
She looked around for God but couldn’t see him in the crowd. Deciding she’d stumble upon him sooner or later, she headed outside onto the beach, walking towards the sea.
All around her, breakaway groups from the party had set up on the sand. Small bonfires flickered in the night, casting shadows of people laughing and loving their way through the dark hours.
She walked a little further up the beach, wanting to find her own place. She sat down in the sand at the edge of the water and stared out at the mirrored night on the ocean.
The calm she had always known—that numb, distant dislocation from the world that had allowed her to survive both before and after The Change—had been shaken up. She felt bursts of anger, fear and agitation all churning away inside her. She took deep breaths, listening to the sound of the waves. She tried to force away the pounding of the music from the bar, the sound of the other people. She imagined herself back in the darkness of the cabin, cocooned against the world. Rocking back and forth on the soft sand she visualised swallowing every strong emotion inside her, pressing them down and down until they were lost inside; muffled, dead.
She breathed out, calm and cold, empty again.
‘Hey kid, you cool?’
She looked up to see Corman, the Queen’s aide. He was draining a bottle of beer in his left hand so he could get started on the one in his right.
‘Cool?’ she asked. ‘Should I be, given what I’m supposed to face tomorrow?’
He nodded, staring at the empty bottle of beer as if it might contain some important answers. Finally, deciding that, like most of u
s, it contained nothing but stale air, he lobbed it into the ocean and took a sip from its full replacement. ‘She was kind of full on,’ he said. ‘You never can tell with her. Sometimes she’s soft, kind, do anything for anyone. Other times she’s... well, she’s kind of mean, you know?’
‘And today was a mean day.’
‘You got it, kid. But you never know, you might be ok. Least there’s two of you. You can watch each other’s backs.’
‘As some freak sticks something sharp in them?’
He shrugged. ‘I wish I could help ya, kid. It sucks the big one. Truth be told she don’t know what to do with the place, you know? It’s here in her patch but she can’t control it, not like everywhere else. What are the things inside? The original inhabitants? Ghosts? Some kind of freaky mixture of the two?’ He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Give it to you straight, it’s something she just can’t get that mind of hers around. So she pushes it off onto someone else until she can think of a way of dealing with it. Tomorrow that’s you and your guy with the beard.’
‘And the day after?’
‘Way she’s been behaving who knows? This is all new you know? We’re still finding our feet really. Right now she’s the Queen Bee, ’cos she may not look like much but she’s got it where it counts. She built most of this place out of this,’ he tapped his head, ‘it’s like she’s its heart somehow. The thing that makes it all tick. I guess she lived here so long, years of sleeping on these streets that she’s linked to it. They’re joined.’ He sighed. ‘She was sick for a couple of days and the whole of West 18th was shaking. It’s like they’re one and the same thing. I don’t know, I can’t get my head around it, who the hell can?
‘But the thing with Dreamland, that ain’t part of her. That’s something she never knew. As much as things have changed, distorted, got whacked, it’s still, at heart, Coney Island. Dreamland is before her time. She ain’t in touch with it. That freaks her out. I think she’d be happier if the whole place burned down.’
