by Paul Magrs
His expression told me he was prepared for the worst. Then he said, ‘What your brother told you about the wooden toys and the playset in the store – it really freaked you out, didn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘And I’m not even sure why. It’s how we must seem to them, I suppose. Just playthings. Distant, made-up, fantastical creatures.’
He kissed me on the cheek and went off to sleep on the sofa.
Back in my room I lay on my bed and found I was too tired to sleep. My thoughts were so disordered I couldn’t clamber back inside my Victorian novel. What I did though, was reach into my bedside cabinet and take out that single piece of paper again, and read the address to myself.
536 / Appt D
Bolingbroke District
900044 NNVX
These few lines kept creeping into my head like the stanza of a poem that had a meaning I couldn’t get. They were important somehow, the way they kept suggesting themselves. I slipped the piece of paper, without really thinking about it, into my purse.
The next day was long, frosty and frustrating.
We went back to the Ruskin District and the quad where the students had been agitating the night before. In the icy morning we found everything empty and still. We managed to get ourselves back into the Department of True Life Stories because I guess, to the guards and such, we just looked like any other students. There was nothing particular about our furtive shabbiness to mark us out. When we hurried by her desk, I was aware of the penetrating gaze of the pink-haired receptionist. She didn’t stop us, though.
Peter led the way to Dean Swiftnick’s office. His memory of the building’s layout was good. The corridors were congested with students on the move, and once we’d fought our way through, we found a sign saying he was out on business for the day, and his office hours were cancelled till further notice.
Peter swore and thumped the door. For the first time I actually found myself thinking – are we really going to get his Karl back? And Toaster? Are they both completely lost to us?
I decided that if the Professor wanted my memories that badly, he could have them. He could use his horrible brain drain machine on me again, but only if he returned Karl and Toaster to us.
I knew Peter was hideously disappointed. I knew he had imagined some miraculous reunion with a barking, happy, waggy, trembling Karl, and it hadn’t happened. I made up my mind to tell him I would bargain with Swiftnick as soon as we saw him again. And then we ran into someone I recognised at once.
It was Tillian’s Da, the nattily dressed Mr Tollund Graveley. He stood out a mile amongst the scruffy students in his immaculate charcoal-grey suit. For a beat he looked astonished to see me, but it took only a moment for him to smooth his reaction over and turn back into his calm, collected self. ‘Lora Robinson, my dearest girl. How absolutely extraordinary to come across you in this place.’
I asked him suspiciously, ‘Why are you here?’
He flushed at my poor manners. ‘My newspaper, The City Insider, often liaises with academics from this faculty, using them in a consultative role…’
‘Dean Swiftnick,’ I said suddenly. ‘You’re in league with Dean Swiftnick.’
A whole gaggle of noisy students surged past and Peter was drawn away from us. Old man Graveley and I found ourselves pressed against a noticeboard.
I gasped. ‘That’s how Swiftnick knew I had heard about the antique hunters. You told me that awful story…’ My head was spinning with conspiracies.
The old man was flummoxed, beetling his bushy brows at me. ‘I am afraid I have no idea what you mean…’
‘Never mind all that,’ I snapped. I needed to get Al away from the Graveley family and away from his beloved Tillian. If her father and the Dean were in cahoots then I didn’t want my brother anywhere near any of them. But how would he react to that?
Peter was pushing his way through the crowd towards us, like a swimmer against high tide. Mr Graveley leaned over me. ‘Actually, Lora my dear, there is indeed something I need to tell you. I think I must take advantage of this extraordinary coincidence of our bumping into one another…’
His breath reeked of some kind of spoiled meat – a mess of horrible offal. I drew back. ‘What do you want?’
‘Well, it seems that my foolish daughter has done something rather unfortunate.’
I went cold. Was he going to say something was wrong with Al? Something had happened to him? And yet I’d seen him that morning at breakfast. He was happy and fine.
‘It seems that, in a quite extraordinary act of indiscretion, my silly daughter has given your brother a particular bundle of papers. Now, these are very important and secret documents printed by the Archive Machine at The City Insider…’
I saw what he was after and knew that I had to play dumb. ‘Really? I don’t think so.’
He bent even closer, with his breath blasting hot on my face. ‘You know what I mean. My daughter gave your brother a fancy box, tied up in ribbons, the night the two of you were entertained at our apartment. You are now in possession of that box, and the bundle of papers it contained.’
‘Oh, that.’ I saw I couldn’t deny it any further. ‘It was nothing. Just empty pages.’
‘I hardly think so. It is the property and copyright of the City University. And I will have it back, my dear.’
I didn’t say anything. Just kept staring at him defiantly.
‘Extraordinary willfulness,’ he whispered. It was as if we two were the only people in the whole building. He carried a feeling of deathly hush with him. ‘You really have the most fiercely stubborn personality I have ever encountered. I thought as much when I first met you. I suppose your intransigence is how you managed to escape alive from the ghastly, benighted place that produced you.’
I wanted to punch him.
‘We want those papers, Lora. But we will be reasonable. Have the bundle back in its chocolate box, all tied up in ribbons, and I will call on you tonight with Tillian, when she comes to pay her visit to Al. It will be a lovely social call and you will offer me refreshment and hand me back my property.’
Still I didn’t say anything. I realised that Peter was standing very close by, observing everything. Mr Graveley’s manners were impeccable. He bade us both goodbye, turned smartly on his heel and was gone.
‘Who was that creep?’ asked Peter. ‘What was he saying to you?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll explain as we go. I need your help, Peter. You said you could help me find my way across the City…’
‘Yes, anywhere.’
‘There’s somewhere in particular I need to be. This afternoon.’
‘The traffic will be busy. It’s Christmas Eve.’
That brought me up short. Of course it was. Christmas had snuck up on me. I’d been so concerned with everything else – these mysteries and Disappearances and all – I had nothing ready. No food, no decorations, not even a present for my brother.
I came from a place where everything was so ordered and the seasons’ rituals always followed a laid-out pattern of anticipation and preparation. Here in the City things were much more chaotic. Time moved in jerks and jumps and you had to keep up, otherwise you’d be left out.
On the Pipeline train Peter examined the small piece of paper I had tucked into my purse.
‘But what will we find at this address, Lora?’ he asked. ‘What are you hoping will happen?’
I truly didn’t know. But if Mr Graveley didn’t want me to have this information then I knew it was something – somewhere – important. And I intended to find out why.
I sat fretting in the wooden train carriage in the underground tunnel, watching the greenish steam flooding by, hardly aware of my fellow passengers. I felt bad for Peter. I’d let his pursuit of Karl slip by the wayside, caught up in my own search.
We climbed out of our train at last and up innumerable stone staircases and one of those escalators I still couldn’t get used to. The tiled station echoed pleasantly with the voices of a choir sin
ging Earth songs I didn’t recognise. Snow was blowing down from street level and I thought: Why can’t I just enjoy the holiday like everyone else? Why can’t I forget my concerns and simply have a nice time?
I could buy a gift for Al. I could forget all the mysterious stuff and just go buy him a present. And what if I bought that prairie playset and all its wooden figures? He could set them out and imagine the world we used to live in. Then, suddenly, that seemed a ridiculous thought and, besides, how much did it cost and how little money did I have? Did I really think the Authorities would keep giving me cash, after I’d run out of Swiftnick’s Remembering Room?
What if they took the apartment off me? I was following Peter up the slushy red steps to the busy street above. It hit me that I could be homeless in the New Year, living rough on the cold streets of the City Inside. I’d not even thought of that when I’d escaped from the Dean’s memory machine.
We did battle with the oncoming crowds, or were drawn along on their tides through broad thoroughfares where we could barely see the colourful window displays. There was a barrage of exotic smells from street food – sickly sweets, spitting hot fat, Christmas fruit and spices. I even felt a tinge of festive nostalgia at some of those scents as we bustled by.
Peter paused to consult a City map and looked again, frowning, at the piece of card with the address on.
‘It’s so good of you to help me when you’re worried about Karl.’
‘We’re in this together. We’re a team, aren’t we?’
I felt he was right and it was our togetherness that was keeping us both calm. With all the festivities ringing brashly about us, I was glad of Peter’s dependability. He felt real. I knew he always saw things as they actually were. He knew his way around this strange City and he made me feel safe. We were a team because neither of us fitted in and we both knew it.
He led us away from the main boulevard and all its brightness into a series of twisting back streets, deeper and deeper into the City. We passed more modest, then more down-at-heel stores and dwellings. Metal staircases zigzagged up tenement blocks way above our heads and I realised that thousands of people must live up there behind those humble-looking windows. Most were shuttered against the cold and dark.
We hurried up the steel rungs of fire escapes, careful of the frost and slimy ice. We went up two, three, four storeys. It was all a far cry from the smooth, mirrored bronze of the elevators in the tower where I lived.
Candles flickered and dipped on draughty windowsills as we went by and I saw the vague shapes of inhabitants watching us and shrinking back into the gloom. Peter urged me up to the fifth floor and the particular apartment door we were after.
536 / Appt D
Unlike the doors beside it, the red paint wasn’t blistered and the number was on a neat little sign, not written with pen. Someone who lived here took some pride in this humble abode. But the door didn’t reveal much more.
Before I could even ask Peter what he thought we should do, he raised his fist and knocked hard, three times.
I held my breath.
A square letterbox, almost at head height, flapped upwards. There was warm light and a waft of delicious baking smells. It took a moment to see a face there. We could see the wrinkled, dark orange skin and the thin, cracked lips, painted a festive scarlet. The teeth were yellow and broken.
A very unfriendly voice came out of the mouth. ‘Go away,’ it said. ‘Whatever you’re after, we don’t have any of it here. Go and bother someone else. It’s Christmas, you know!’
41
‘Please madam,’ said Peter, so politely. ‘My friend here was given this address and it’s very important to her.’
I felt unsure and numb, standing out on that fire escape. I was trying not to look down.
‘What’s that?’ demanded the ancient voice. It was so scratchy it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman. ‘Well, let her speak for herself, why don’t you? What is it you’re after, girl? Why are you knocking on doors where no one wants you? Why are you bothering old folks on Christmas Eve?’
When my voice at last came out, I sounded so young and shaky. ‘It was just an idea, that’s all. I’m not even sure why we came knocking on your door. We’ll go now.’ I made a swift gesture to Peter. I was shivering. ‘This was a mistake.’ I turned back to the flap in the door. ‘Goodbye, then.’
The wrinkled face gurned. The old woman was chewing her own lips thoughtfully. It looked like she was powering up to unleash a stream of horrible invective on us. We were going to get berated for wasting her precious time.
Something went clink and fizz in my mind. The echo of a memory.
I remembered another nasty old woman who pursed her lips just like that, and who’d chomp her yellow teeth before she bawled you out.
There was no time to develop the thought any further. Thudding footfalls made the whole fire escape tremble. Someone large, heavy and determined was running up the zigzagging staircases from ground level towards us, coming at speed.
‘Ma?’ called a gruff voice below us. The man sounded concerned. He had heard our voices and the old woman telling us to go. ‘Ma, are you all right?’ It was a very resonant voice. A strong and dependable voice.
My breath froze in my throat and my heart was the size of a sack of sand in my chest.
Bang bang bang on the metal rungs, the running man came closer. I looked down and saw the bulk of him. He was swaddled in heavy winter clothes, and wearing a dark hat and muffler.
Everything about him – even glimpsed from this odd vantage point – was instantly familiar.
Peter noticed my strange reaction. He thought I was about to faint and fall over the side. ‘Are you all right?’
The old woman’s mouth was grinning in ghoulish satisfaction. ‘I’m here, Edward! I’m all right, but I’m getting harassed. I’ve been dragged to the front door by these ruffians!’
She shouted past us, smacking her cracked lips and gloating. ‘My Edward will see you off, you robbers! Try to get inside an old woman’s home, would you? Steal her few poor possessions, would you? Edward – help me! I’m here! Come quickly!’
Peter told me, ‘I think we’d better go.’
But I couldn’t move a muscle.
The bulky man reached the top of the staircase. He towered over us both. He removed his battered hat and rubbed the snow out of his hair and beard. He stared at me and his eyes burnt holes in my face.
‘Lora,’ the man said.
I could only get out one word in reply.
‘Da…!’
Where had he been?
Had he been here all along?
He had been taken away. He had been Disappeared. We had learned to live with that fact. I knew better than to hope to see him again.
We stood staring at each other. Nobody moved.
At last Peter spoke up. ‘Lora – do you know this man?’
Da spoke roughly, moving past us to the apartment door. ‘Open up,’ he told the still-visible mouth in the hatch.
After a few seconds there was the sound of locks and bolts sliding and slamming. Then the door opened, revealing Grandma in the warm hall light. She looked even older and more fragile than when I’d last seen her. She was even more tanned and leathery, too.
‘It’s Lora, is it?’ she cackled. ‘I would hardly have known you.’
I didn’t move to hug her. I didn’t know what to do.
We were led inside. Those wonderful baking aromas enveloped us. Da followed us into the hallway and secured the door.
The old woman took us into a spacious but cluttered living area. Aged Christmas decorations were everywhere: cheap, cheerful and tatty. There was a tinsel fir tree in one corner.
This was the home – incredibly – of my da and my grandma.
Da was staring at me. ‘You look older. Even though it’s only been a few months. You are the spit of your ma.’
I said, ‘You can’t be here. Either of you. This isn’t possible. It can’t be true
.’
‘We are,’ said Grandma, sitting heavily on a faded armchair. Her voice was still harsh and her eyes were shifty. ‘You know it’s us. Of course it’s us. Who else would we be? We never forgot you. Not for a single day. Could it be that you’ve forgotten us?’
‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘But you both Disappeared. We thought you were dead and gone. That’s what we believed…’
Grandma wore a patch where her glass eye had fallen out. Now that I looked, she had a new cybernetic leg that sparked as she adjusted it.
There was no doubt that they were who they said they were.
I fell into my da’s arms and when he hugged me close I thought I would suffocate happily in the feeling of coming home.
‘Is Hannah with you?’ he asked. ‘And your ma?’ It was as if every word pained him. ‘And what about Al? Are they all here in the City Inside?’
‘Al lives with me,’ I said, trying to see through my tears. ‘The others … I don’t know. We were all separated, I don’t know where they went, or if they are OK or not. It was terrible, Da. We left the Homestead. We went into the wilderness alone…’
He hugged me closer. ‘I know. I know. Don’t cry, Lore. I know how difficult it must have been. You did the best you could. We were hoping that one day you would find us and come to be with us…’
We didn’t attempt any further explanations or swapping tales. There would be time for that later. We simply gazed at each other.
Da looked like he had aged some since his Disappearance. He was more grizzled and grey, but he was still vigorous and powerfully strong.
Grandma hopped out of her chair and hurried away to bring us mulled wine and some spicy bread. Just the type she used to make at Christmas when I was a little girl.
‘You live here,’ I said, trying to make it all sink in. ‘You actually live here, in this City…’
I was suddenly aware of Peter on the periphery of my vision. I called to him and introduced him to my surviving family members.
I don’t remember much about our journey back across the City, late that afternoon. My thoughts were saturated with the heady spiced wine Grandma had made us drink.
