Un Lun Dun

by China Miéville

  “Whatever,” said Deeba. “The main point is Brokkenbroll can’t control them. Does anyone know where he is yet?”

  “No. But we’re not worried. I’m sure he’ll try to break a few rebrellas and reclaim them, and unbrellas are going to keep finding their way here, but everyone knows to fix them when found. What can he do? He’s a bandit and we all know it. A nuisance, at worst, these days.”

  “Still,” said Deeba. “I’ll be happier when you find him.”

  “Binja are looking.”

  “Among others,” said the book, tucked under Hemi’s arm.

  It was only one full day after that extraordinary battle, but UnLondon was adjusting to the news and ways of postwar life impressively quickly. All over the abcity, stories of heroism and betrayal and incompetence and luck were emerging. There were plenty of champions Deeba had never heard of, who’d done amazing things, in parts of UnLondon she’d never been.

  “What’ll happen to Lectern?” Deeba said.

  “Oh, she’s confessed,” said Mortar. “She’ll do some time. But she’s by no means the worst of them.”

  “No,” said Deeba. “She was just a coward. Although seeing as what she almost did to me…”

  “Absolutely,” muttered Hemi. He had become a go-between of sorts, a proto-ambassador between Wraithtown and the Pons, and he was wearing a suit of ghost-clothes. Around the cotton was a corona of older forms of dress.

  “Quite,” said Mortar. “There were quite a few people who worked hand in glove with the Smog. We don’t know who they all are.”

  “The Concern. They could be trouble in the future.”

  There was a lot to do. Mortar was energized, now that he had finally stopped apologizing to Deeba.

  “Is the UnLondon-I ready?” Deeba said. “I have to get back over.”

  “They’re finishing it up now,” Mortar said. “Don’t worry, it’ll be ready by tonight. And that still gives you a few hours in hand—you’ll be fine.”

  The great waterwheel, like so much in the abcity, had been damaged in the fighting, its mechanisms clogged and banged about by rampaging stink-junkies. Nothing too serious before the Smog had dispersed, but enough that they had not been able to use it the previous day, to generate the current to poke the Pons Absconditus through the Odd into London.

  A little part of Deeba had almost felt relief. Despite her eagerness to return, she’d been so battered after the showdown that a day of enforced rest and recuperation while the Propheseers worked to fix it had felt like a blessing. Now it was definitely time for her to go.

  They strolled on the Pons Absconditus as Propheseers had its ends dip into various parts of UnLondon, gadding busily around the abcity. Elsewhere on the bridge were Deeba’s companions, their wounds bandaged and tended by doctors and apothecaries, whose herbs, poultices, and spells had done amazing things.

  “I like your clothes,” Deeba said to Hemi.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I haven’t often worn ghost togs. Too busy trying not to have that side of me noticed. Extreme shopping.” He grinned. “But the good thing is with these things I don’t end up in the nude if I go through something—they come with me.”

  “It’s all going well,” Deeba said, looking around. “Be good to see what happens.”

  “The first thing,” said the book, “is that I’m making this lot change their name. Now that we know things don’t go as written at all.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” said Deeba. “You’re talking to the Unchosen One.”

  “Yeah, but where’s the skill in being a hero if you were always destined to do it?” said Hemi. He hesitated, and said, “You impress me a lot more.”

  “Destiny’s bunk,” said the book. “That’s why this lot aren’t the Propheseers anymore.”

  “From here on in,” said Mortar, “we’re the Order of Suggesters.”

  “And what about all those prophecies?” said Deeba. She poked the book gently. “In you.”

  “Oh…who knows? Who cares what’s in me, frankly,” it said loftily. “Maybe in a few years we’ll open me up and read out what was supposed to happen and we can all have a good laugh. What Zanna was supposed to be doing. Whether you’re even mentioned. Yes, maybe I’ll end up a comedy. A joke book. There are worse things.”

  “You never know,” Deeba said. “One or two of them might be true.”

  “Well,” said the book. “Coincidence is an amazing thing.”

  “After all,” Deeba said. “The only thing in your pages you thought definitely was wrong turned out to be right. Nothing and the UnGun?” There was a moment’s silence.

  “That,” said the book with cautious pleasure, “is true.”

  Curdle and the rebrella bounded towards Deeba, as she approached them.

  “Have you decided what to do with the UnGun, yet?” said Deeba.

  “Well, we’re ready for the first step at least,” Mortar said. “If you’d do the honors?”

  In the middle of the bridge was a huge mold, a cube five or more feet on each side, into which mixers were pouring liquid concrete. Jones, Obaday, and the others were gathered around it.

  “Ready?” said Hemi.

  Skool stood beside him. They’d rescued the little colony before the patch of seawater in the canal had ebbed away. The fish were still mourning the loss of several of their companions, but they’d come to say good-bye to Deeba. They were poured into a new suit. This one was smaller, and more up-to-date: a little wetsuit, complete with ungainly flippers. This time the mask was clear, and Deeba smiled at the seahorse and clown fish staring at her from the brine inside.

  “I’m not making a big thing of this,” Deeba said. “No speech.” She chucked the UnGun, the Smog’s prison, into the cement.

  It splashed thickly and disappeared. They watched brief, thick ripples.

  “When it’s set, what then?” she said. “Got to make sure no one can open it.”

  “Opinion’s divided,” Mortar said. “Some people want to put it back among the Black Windows. It must have been one of our predecessors did that, yonks ago, so there’s history. Some want to bury it. Some want to tip it in the river. Or the sea. We haven’t decided yet.”

  “We might put it to a vote,” said Jones.

  “We’ll see,” said Deeba.

  “Well,” said Mortar, “you might not.

  “You’re talking as if you’ll be back again, Deeba,” he said gently. “But it isn’t easy to cross between the worlds. Every time you breach the Odd, the membrane between two whole universes is strained. Think what that means.

  “You have,” he said, “to make a choice. You know we want you here. You…well, you saved UnLondon. We owe you our abcity and our lives. You’re a Suggester, whether you join us officially or not. It would be an honor if you’d stay.

  “But your family. Your life. All of these things…we understand. We’ll miss you if you go, Deeba. But you have to choose.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I can’t stay,” Deeba said at last. “I can’t let my family forget me. Forget I even exist. Can you imagine? I’m going back. You know I have to.”

  She looked at each of them in turn.

  “You know that,” she said. Hemi looked away.

  They all looked sad. Obaday sniffed. Jones dabbed surreptitiously at his eyes.

  “The stuff that happened here,” Deeba said, “I’ll never forget. What we did. I’ll never forget you. Any of you.” She paused, looked at each of them in turn.

  “And part of the reason I won’t forget you,” she said, “is ’cause I’ll be back all the time.”

  Mortar and the Propheseers—the Suggesters—looked up, startled.

  “Come on,” she said, smiling. “What you even talking about, Mortar? It’s easy to get from London to here. I got here by turning a tap, then by climbing shelves. Jones is here, Rosa got here, all the conductors got here. The police came in a digging machine. For God’s sake, Unstible and Murgatroyd p
ut an elevator in. People are always going between, and you don’t see either universe collapsing, do you?

  “You just think it’s hard to go between the two ’cause you’ve always thought it must be. You’re just saying that ’cause you sort of think you should.”

  Deeba’s friends stared at her, and at each other. “She has a point,” Mortar said eventually.

  “You’ve spent all your time wanting to go!” said Jones.

  “’Cause I couldn’t get back,” she said. “Now that I can, I’ll go back and forth all the time. You seriously think I’m not coming to see you again? Not coming to see this place?”

  “But such methods,” Mortar said, “they aren’t reliable. They may not always work; the rules aren’t always clear—”

  “Well then, I’ll try others. Till one of them does. Look, I’m not even making plans. I’m just saying there’s no way I’m not coming back. There’s things I want to do here.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Jones said. “I’m going to take a trip back to Webminster Abbey. I’m going to find Rosa, and get her out. And I’d be delighted if you’d join me.”

  “Of course,” said Deeba. “Yes. Speaking of which, there’s someone called Ptolemy Yes I was told about who went missing, and I want to find him. And I’d like to go back to the Wordhoard Pit, climb down, see what the libraries are like in other places.”

  “There’s people in Wraithtown I’d like you to meet,” said Hemi, still not meeting her eye. “And also, I wondered if maybe you want to go to Manifest Station? We could get a train. See another abcity together…”

  There was a pause, and Deeba smiled at him.

  “Absolutely,” Deeba said. “Yeah. And loads of other things. I’m blatantly coming back. And you can come visit me.” She smiled at Hemi again.

  He, and then the others, began cautiously smiling back.

  “You called it our abcity,” Jones said. “Before the fight. And it is. It’s your home too.”

  “And anyway,” Deeba said, “Curdle and the rebrella are coming with me, and they might get homesick.”

  “You can’t let feral rubbish cross into London,” Mortar said anxiously. “It belongs in another world.” Deeba looked at him and raised an eyebrow, and his voice dried up. “I suppose one or two can’t hurt,” he mumbled.

  “So listen,” Deeba said. “I’m not saying good-bye to any of you. I’ll say ‘See you soon.’ And I mean really soon. Let me explain.

  “I told you one reason the Smog grew so strong: ’cause it was getting help. There’s one thing we haven’t dealt with. Mortar, you said the police burrower was gone?”

  “Yes. We checked where you said it had been. The officers must have got out and fixed it, gone home yesterday.”

  “Right. They threatened my family. It might have been only to scare me—there’s nothing in it for them to actually do anything now. But I don’t like it. And I don’t like who they ally with. For the sake of me, and my mate Zanna, and my family, and London and UnLondon, it needs sorting. So I wanted to make a suggestion. An arrangement. It’s going to involve clearing some rubble in Unstible’s old place, but I think it’s worth it.”

  Deeba looked at them all. Jones cracked his knuckles and raised an eyebrow. Hemi pursed his lips thoughtfully. Deeba smiled.

  When evening fell, with a huge grinding, the UnLondon-I spun once more. With focus and effort, Mortar and the Suggesters directed the bridge.

  Deeba hugged every one of her friends good-bye.

  “Oh,” she said to Hemi. She fumbled in her pocket.

  “Tell me you ain’t reaching for that money,” he said. She grinned.

  “It’s no good to me,” she said, and held it out. “You might as well…” He took her hand gently, and closed her fingers back over it.

  “This way you still owe me,” he muttered. “So this way you got to come back, to pay up.”

  Deeba swallowed and nodded and hugged him again. She held her breath, and turned and ran to the edge of the bridge. There was a strain, an effort, a whining in the air, and Deeba felt a membrane split, somewhere in reality. The bridge dipped across the Odd. She ran towards the walkway by her front door, which she could see beyond the girders.

  I dunno what might happen, she thought, giddy, head spinning. I could go back. I could live there, in a moil house with walls made out of wallets and windows made out of glasses. Or in a house like a goldfish bowl. I could catch a train from Manifest Station.

  But right now…

  She stepped off the bridge, and breathed deeply in the London night. She looked all around her. Curdle exhaled at her feet. Deeba smiled.

  “Hush,” she told it. “And you.” She held up the rebrella. “Remember. Over on this side, when other people’re around, you stay still.”

  She turned. The bridge still soared out across the estate. Standing near its edge, waving at her, were her friends. Joe Jones; Skool; Hemi the half-ghost, biting his lip; Bling and Cauldron, their bodies quite solid; and Obaday Fing, carrying the book.

  Deeba blinked through tears and smiled. She raised her hand. The UnLondoners waved back. She and they looked across at each other, from city to abcity.

  A cat yowled somewhere. Deeba glanced in its direction.

  When she looked back, the Pons Absconditus was gone. Deeba stood alone on the concrete walkway, in the dark. In London.

  Deeba gave a long, shaky sigh. She picked up Curdle, put it in her bag. She whispered to the rebrella: “Remember!”

  Then she turned and unlocked her front door.

  99

  Memory

  Deeba walked slowly through the living room. She was trembling. She heard voices from the kitchen.

  She paused a moment, and looked at a photo on the mantel.

  It was of her whole family. Deeba stared at it in horror. There was her mother, her father, her brother, smiling out…and there was she, but it was as if the film was underexposed in that corner of the picture. Or as if she stood in shadow. Or in fact, as if it was just hard to notice her there, smiling, her arms around her parents.

  The picture was of four people, but it looked as if it was of three.

  Her family were at the table eating supper. Deeba almost sobbed to see only three places set.

  She walked in, looked at her parents and Hass, and brimmed with tears of relief, and nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to just run across the room to them, but she held back in fear, seeing their faces.

  All three of them were staring at her blankly.

  Her father had a fork halfway to his mouth. Food was dripping slowly off the metal tines. Her mother held a glass. Their faces were almost like voids. They looked slack, completely uncomprehending. Deeba saw a struggle deep inside each of them.

  I was gone too long! she thought desperately. The phlegm effect’s gone permanent!

  “Mum?” she whispered. “Dad? Hass?” They stared.

  It’s only been eight days! she thought. Since I spoke to Dad, in the Talklands! But… A coldness hit her stomach. But it’s been more than nine since I left. Maybe it doesn’t do it, to phone. The time counts from when you’re gone. It’s too late…

  “Mum? Dad? Hass?”

  The Reshams quivered, and very slowly winced and blinked, and stared at Deeba, and something seemed to shudder and run through the room. One by one her family shivered as if at a chill, and they stretched their faces as if yawning, or shrugging something off.

  “Can’t you sit down like a civilized person?” Mr. Resham said. It took several seconds before Deeba was sure he was speaking to her.

  “What are you wearing?” Mrs. Resham said. “You funny girl.”

  Deeba let out a little sob of relief and grabbed them both, and hugged them harder than she ever had before.

  “Mad girl!” her father said. “You’re spilling my rice!” He laughed.

  Deeba hugged Hass, too. He looked at her suspiciously.

  “What?” he said. “I drew a picture.”

  It
took Deeba a few moments to convince her mum and dad that though, yes, she was crying, she was very happy.

  “I’m just going over to Zanna’s for a minute,” Deeba said as the Reshams picked at the last of their dinner. Deeba did so too, her father having wordlessly got her a plate and cutlery, a faint quizzical look on his face when she sat down.

  “You…” her mother said. “You think I can’t see through this shameless attempt to get out of clearing up dishes?”

  “Oh, please. Just for a second. I need to…give her something for school.”

  Deeba grew more and more nervous the whole short distance to Zanna’s. She had to clench and unclench her hand to stop it shaking before she rang the doorbell.

  It was Zanna herself who opened the door. Deeba stared at her, dumb, her mouth open. It felt like years since she had seen that familiar blond-fringed face.

  For an instant, a cloud of confusion passed over Zanna’s expression. Then she smiled and stood up straighter, looking fresher and better than anytime since she had returned from her own, unremembered, trip to the abcity.

  “Hey Deebs,” she said. There was no trace of debilitating breathlessness left in her voice—her lungs sounded completely clear. “Man,” she said, “you look happy. So…you been doing anything interesting? What? What’s so funny? Why you laughing?”

  Much later, when Deeba crept out of bed and looked at the photograph of her family again, while everyone else was asleep and she was basking in having her house around her, the light in the picture had altered. Deeba’s image was properly visible, and there were four Reshams again.

  It was beyond extraordinary that she had only a few hours previously been in UnLondon, a place so far away from her bedroom that conventional measures of distance were meaningless. She thought, carefully and precisely, of all her friends in turn: Obaday, Jones, the book, the utterlings, Hemi the half-ghost.