by Celia Rees
LUCY WAITED OUTSIDE, her book gripped in her hand. Was there really any point in doing this? Was it pointless and futile, like Natalie said?
“I mean, you don’t even know him.” Natalie had added a scratchy creak to the drawly American accent that she’d picked up from her favourite YouTube channels and which made her voice even more irritating. “Now, if you don’t mind?” She’d swept back her long blonde hair. “I’d like some alone time with my boyfriend.”
Natalie had turned her back and begun checking her look in the mirror app on her phone, applying a fresh coating of candy-coloured lipstick. It wasn’t for him. He slept on like some enchanted prince. It was for the selfies she was preparing to take to put up on her Instagram, Facebook and Twitter accounts. To feed her followers. Add more.
Lucy had let the door swing shut and left her to it. There was no love lost between them. Natalie thought Lucy was a nerd and a freak, while Lucy thought Natalie was a total airhead of the first order.
Natalie applied mascara with steady strokes. Interest was falling off, truth be told—numbers going down, #boyinacoma no longer trending, even #heroinacoma was getting fewer likes—but she had a secret plan. Well, not so secret—she’d told Milo, but then, why shouldn’t she? He was her boyfriend now—unofficially, as she couldn’t be seen to be two-timing Tom. If she was extra specially truthful, it was Milo’s idea, but she preferred to think that they came up with it together. If #boyinacoma had trended—and #heroinacoma had gone even better—#boyswitchedoff “would go pandemic!” Milo had told her. “There must be a switch around there somewhere…” He’d grinned. “Only kidding!” Milo had a wicked sense of humour. “It’s just a matter of time, babe,” he’d said then. “Just a matter of time. But you’ve got to be ready, so keep feeding in the pix. I’ll do the rest.”
Natalie wasn’t sure what “the rest” was but she’d leave that up to him. Milo was clever. And rich. Natalie didn’t know how he made his money—something to do with the internet—but he had plenty of it. He was getting a Maserati as soon as he passed his driving test. He’d promised to fund Vlogit, the shopping and fashion vlog she planned to start sometime soon. She had such great taste—all her friends said so, online and in real life. She could have her own reality TV programme—so much to share, so much to offer—but that was for the future. “If you want to be an influencer, you gotta build a platform, babe,” Milo had told her. “Create a presence.”
Building a platform—that’s what she was doing right now. She plumped Tom’s pillow and put her head next to his, holding her phone at just the right angle to show her good side. Another of Tom on his own, eyes closed, tubes going in and out of him. She applied just a tiny hint of blusher to his cheeks. He looked so, so alive. So young, so beautiful, but doomed… She really did want to cry, so it wasn’t hard to take the next set of selfies with tears just about to spill. Not too much, though. “You don’t want a red nose and mascara clown eyes,” Milo had advised. Just one last one. There, all done.
“He’s all yours.”
She was too busy sweeping back through the shots she’d taken to even look at Lucy. She went off down the corridor, scrutinizing each shot, binning the not so good. “Better to have a few crackers than a load of duff stuff,” Milo had said. She took his advice; he knew tons about the “net”. With a few pecks of her pink shellac nails, she uploaded her choices. She took a few shots of hospital signage, just for good measure, and popped the phone in her pocket. She smiled with satisfaction. The notifications were starting. She hadn’t even left the hospital and she was already getting likes.
Lucy went back into Tom’s room and resumed her seat. She found her place in the book and continued to read. There was no difference in Tom—there never was—but Lucy had the suspicion that Natalie’s visits upset him in some way. It was nothing she could put her finger on, but the feeling in the room had changed from calm to agitation. His monitors showed nothing but she felt a subtle shift in him.
Lucy read on but her mind wasn’t really on the book. She knew what Natalie was doing. She followed her on social media but it wasn’t just that. Lucy was no slouch at the internet herself—not in Milo’s class but way beyond Natalie’s capabilities. Natalie always used the same password, glamgirl4luv. She was seeing Milo on the sly. Not in public, beyond the odd word in the sixth form common room, as she couldn’t afford for them to be seen out together, but she was WhatsApping him and even emailing him from her school account—which was stupid, even for Natalie. Lucy didn’t quite know what they were up to but neither of them had Tom’s interests at heart—that was for sure.
“She gone?” Joe, the male nurse, popped his head round the door.
Lucy nodded.
“Good.” He came in, shaking his head. “She’s no good for him, that one.” He went over to Tom, checking the readings from the machines, taking his temperature. “Gone down. That’s better.” He picked up the chart at the bottom of the bed. “Normal now. It was up yesterday. I was a bit worried. I was scared he might have got an infection. That would be dangerous for him.” He pulled the gown aside and looked down at Tom’s shoulder. “There’s been some unusual brain activity on the EEG and I still don’t know what to make of this.”
“What?” Lucy got up from her seat and went over.
“There’s a mark. Here. See?” He pointed to a small indentation, a slight discoloration. “It just appeared yesterday, with the temperature. I told the doctor.”
“What did she say?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t think it was significant. Thought he might have had it before but we hadn’t noticed. Can’t argue with the doctor.” His smile was ironic. “But I know it wasn’t there. I know his body as good as I know my own.” He laughed, his eyes creasing. “Better.” His round, smiling face grew serious. “And it looked like a bullet scar. An old one, long healed, but that’s what it looked like. I’ve seen them before in my country. Almost gone now. It’s faded some more.” He gently readjusted Tom’s gown. “You can hardly see it. That’s another strange thing.” He folded his arms, looking down at Tom. “Where do you go?” he said quietly. “Where did that come from?”
“Go?”
“Oh.” Joe looked sheepish. “Where I come from they’d say he was travelling. In the spirit world, you know?” He gave a shrug. “It’s just what my people believe. I better be getting on.”
He left and Lucy settled back down with her reading, her quiet voice adding to the noises the machines made. Tom was thankful. There was no way that he could show it, but her voice and her presence soothed him. He’d come to hate Natalie’s visits.
He knew this was life—his real life. He wasn’t sure where the other place was. Something to do with that thing Milo had stuck in his ear, but how it worked and where it took him, he had no idea. He just knew he wanted to be back there. If he could, he would have shed real tears.
HE WOKE SOBBING. Keeper was licking his face, whimpering concern for him. Tom wiped the sleep and tears from his eyes and struggled up, grateful for the dog’s warmth in the predawn cold. The strange stars had faded; the eastern sky was lightening, turning pink and yellow. Tom stood and stretched; the dog got up with him, slowly, as if his legs were stiff also. He looked around at the rest of the camp sleeping. He could try to escape if he wanted to. But where would he go?
He squatted down, stirring the fire to find a few live embers. He threw on some kindling, waited for it to catch, added small sticks and then bigger branches until he had a decent blaze going.
Annie came up, yawning. “See you ’ad company.” She scratched Keeper behind the ears. “Good lad.” The dog whined and licked her hand. “I know what you want.” She laughed. “Soon have a bit o’ bacon cooking. Thanks for keeping the fire in,” she said to Tom. “That warm in the day but starving cold at night. Eeh, day.” She sighed, hands on the small of her back to ease the stiffness there. “Can’t stand it down ’ere.” She handed him a big iron kettle. “Fetch us some water, would you? Down at the stre
am yonder.”
Tom went off, the dog following, the big kettle swinging from his hand. When he came back, kettle filled, Annie threw in a good handful of black tea and hung it over the fire. The brew was strong and tarry. Tom sipped the scalding liquid and felt the life come back into him. Annie soon had slices of thick bacon sizzling. She sawed bread from a big flat loaf to use as a platter. Bacon first, then the thick, greasy slice of bread. Tom didn’t think he’d ever eaten anything so good. He fed rind and crusts to Keeper, and listened to the talk round the fire—of home, mostly; what might be happening there, and what might await them in the city.
“How about you, young man?” Amos asked him. “You ent from these parts.”
“No,” Tom replied.
“What are you, then?”
“A soldier.”
They nodded. Soldiers could come from anywhere.
“Int’ battle, were you?”
“Yes, I was there.”
“Bad do. Heard you was winning when the Jinn come for you. We seen ’em. Int’ distance, like, but near enough to feel their passing.”
Annie shuddered. “How’d you escape? We watched and wondered.”
“We found sanctuary.”
“Wi’t’ Fairish?”
He nodded.
“Ent always to be trusted but they seem to have done right by you.” Amos grinned, his weathered face creasing.
“They did for them murdering swine of soldiers,” Isaac added.
“We keep the Fairish as friends,” Annie said. “Leave milk out, butter and that.”
Isaac laughed and spat into the fire. “Good thing we do.”
Augusta joined them after breakfasting with Rogue and his officers. The long column was setting off early to avoid the heat of the day. The dust thrown up by the horses and wagons was choking. Tom pulled his neckcloth up, winding it round his face.
“That,” Augusta pointed, “is Glass Town.”
In the far distance, spires and slender towers gleamed and glittered in the rising sun. As they rode on, the city seemed to get no nearer; it appeared to float on a pool of quicksilver, receding in front of them, like a mirage. Then suddenly, as the sun rose towards its zenith, there it was, solidifying out of the plain. Tom stopped to gaze in wonder. Set on high cliffs, it thrust out like the prow of a ship. Crenellated walls, carved from the living rock, spiralled up and up to a great tower at the summit which seemed a miniature of the city that supported it. Other towers and spires soared above the winding walls. It was like Middle Earth’s Minas Tirith before it was even imagined. The city shone a blinding white-gold in the sun. Maybe it was the glare from it, or the tricks that the light played, but something about it looked unreal, like a painting, or a backdrop, or a model made for a film or a game. It was a feeling that would stay with Tom, on and off, the entire time he was in the Great Glass Town.
They were riding through a rich land, with vineyards, olive and citrus groves on either side of the road. It grew ever more tropical as they approached the city, the road shaded by tall palms topped with great spreading fronds and laden with hanging clusters of dates. Tom wanted another look at that map. It didn’t make sense for the climate to change as quickly as that.
Round the base of Glass Town, a slow-flowing river lay like a mirror, the city perfectly reflected in its glassy waters. A drowned city, that looked exactly like the one above but with everything reversed. It was impossible to tell which side was up.
“The city is surrounded on three sides by water,” Augusta said. “On the north side, the harbour is famed for its depth and stillness. These mirror waters give Glass Town its name.”
A many-arched bridge spanned the river. Small boats and skiffs looked like children’s toys as they sculled beneath it. The centre arch was a drawbridge to allow taller ships through. On the other side of the bridge the banks were crowded with warehouses, fishing lofts, boathouses and the chimneys of factories and slow-turning water wheels. The entrance to the bridge was guarded by carved lions on tall pillars and soldiers at attention, rifles on their shoulders, their uniforms immaculate, standing so still that they looked like they’d been painted. They snapped to and presented arms as the column rode past.
They entered the city through a great gatehouse. High above them, soldiers marched to and fro with the precision of automata. They rode under the teeth of a huge portcullis. Great oak doors, studded and banded with iron, stood back against the rock. It was cool inside the thickness of the walls and smelt of stone. To left and right, arched doorways led to guardhouses. Off-duty soldiers sat in their shirtsleeves, reading newspapers, playing at cards and dice. Long pikes and halberds, rifles and muskets stood in racks against the walls.
“The city is well defended, as you see.” Rogue had come to ride beside them. “The gates are closed at curfew. The walls patrolled day and night.”
They took the wide street and began winding their way up into the city. Tom looked around, trying to get a measure of the place. They passed shops with goods of all kinds displayed on wide shelves in front of open windows. Inn signs swung above their heads. Street sellers shouted from stalls set up on corners. A great many people were about: men on business, women shopping accompanied by servants carrying parcels, servants running errands, tradesmen making deliveries. The men wore tricorne hats, their hair long, tied at the nape. They were dressed in knee breeches, velvet coats and waistcoats, high-collared shirts and neckcloths, despite the heat. The women wore long dresses of thin, floaty material, or brightly patterned cotton, with gloves above their elbows, their faces shaded by bonnets and parasols to protect them from the sun. The servants sweating after them were afforded no such luxury. Here and there, threaded through the crowds, were dark-skinned, dark-eyed people; the men in white tunics, with brass torques and armlets; the women in colourful robes and turbans, bundles perched on their heads. They looked comfortable in the heat, as though they were used to it, as if this was Africa—although where in Africa, he couldn’t say. Maybe this was some kind of colony. The buildings and the people in charge were European but the temperature was decidedly tropical. Yet they were hardly more than two days’ ride from somewhere that had looked and felt just like Yorkshire…
Their road took them past wide terraces, their squares cooled by gushing fountains, their piazzas shaded by awnings and the dark leaves of fig and palm. One of the secrets, within this city of many secrets, was the gardens that hid behind the high, blank walls that gave on to the streets. Glimpsed here and there, through a partially open door, hinted at by the trickle of running water, the sound of a playing fountain, by feathery fronds that topped the parapets. Beyond lay a hidden world, the air strong with the scent of lavender, myrtle and orange blossom. With walkways threaded through beds of herbs and flowers, leading to arbours and pergolas twisted with violet wisteria, pink and white oleander, bright papery purple bougainvillea, heavy vines. Apricots, peaches, purple figs ripened on honey-coloured stone; oranges and lemons glowed from glossy green leaves.
As they went higher, the people were fewer. The summit was deserted. The city levelled into a vast piazza, paved with different-coloured stone—pink, white and grey—set in geometric patterns. Tall colonnaded buildings lay to either side, built in white and grey marble. In the centre stood a white marble tower, spiralled like the city, a miniature version of it reaching up into the sky, its great domed roof gleaming gold. A wide flight of steps led to a porticoed entrance with beaten bronze doors.
“The Tower of All Nations,” Augusta explained. “These are government buildings.”
The sun glared off the marble frontages, filling the colonnades with deep shadow, rendering the windows black. Wide streets of tall buildings punctuated by square towers and rounded cupolas led off the piazza and diminished into the distance, giving an illusion that the city, endlessly repeated, was disappearing into infinity. The dizzying perspectives, the harsh light and sharp shadow reminded Tom of surrealist paintings.
“There don’t seem to
be many people about,” he observed.
“Ordinary folk are not allowed up here,” Augusta replied. “It would spoil the city’s symmetry. Their commerce is underground. This whole area is supplied by passageways and tunnels. The hill is riddled with them. There is as much below ground as above it. Storehouses, wine cellars, workshops—and dungeons, of course.”
“This is where I must leave you.” Rogue reined in his horse. “I have business in the Tower of All Nations.”
“So we are prisoners?” Augusta twisted in her saddle. “Do you plan to put us in your dungeons?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Augusta. Of course not. Don’t be so histrionic. You are an honoured guest of His Grace.” He turned to their escort. “Take the Lady Augusta to the Duke’s Palace, see her safe to her apartments.” He turned back to address Augusta. “You are free to go anywhere you like. You’ll only be put in the dungeons if you try to leave the city.”
They were taken to the Duke’s Palace. In front of the building stood a colossal statue of the man on the back of a rearing horse, waving his sword. The great bronze doors of his palace were opened by two burly footmen and clanged shut behind them with an echoing finality that seemed to say that they were just as much prisoners here as the unfortunates in the cells below the Tower of All Nations.
They stepped into a cavernous, marble-floored atrium, dark after the brightness of the day outside. A huge bust of the Duke, many times life-sized, presented him laurel wreathed and at his most imperial, his aquiline nose high in the air, blank eyes fixed in a supercilious stare. Their footsteps echoed as they skirted round it to reach the wide twin stairways that led to the upper reaches of the house.
Everything about the Duke’s Palace was at least three times the normal size, from the pillars of the porticoed entrance to reception rooms the length of a ballroom, to ballrooms as big as a ploughed field. The banqueting hall seated a hundred and fifty guests. All for show, like its owner. It lacked human dimensions or any sense that it was a home.
