It was clear that Mrs Pillay was in charge, and that she did not expect any input from her daughter.
“I thought, for the gown— something simple,” she said, nodding serenely. “Simple, but traditional. Feminine. Something, well, you know. Romantic.”
Saraswati inclined her head in agreement. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “I think you might like some of these designs here—” She flipped open the book open, and both women bowed over it, studying the pages.
The book was really a fat file, filled with photographs and drawings of all the wedding gowns Karel and Saraswati had created over the many years they’d worked together. Gia, who had spent many hours paging through it, knew it by heart.
There were the headings in Saraswati’s neat handwriting, dividing it into categories: “Victorian”, “Princess-line”, “Modern,” “Mature Brides,” and many more. Some pages had fabric swatches and scraps of veiling, all of them had photographs of the brides modelling their finished gowns.
Gia could tell, from sections of the book that Mrs Pillay kept turning to, that she was set on what Karel called a “meringue”, stiff, ultra-formal, wide-skirted, and swathed with lace and ribbons. Saraswati, while seeming to agree with every word, was gently steering her to consider some of the simpler gowns near the back of the book. Kavitha seemed completely detached from the process, eyes half closed as she looked into the mid-distance.
Gia felt a rush of sympathy, but also irritation. There was something so exasperating about the way the girl just sat there, as though she’d switched herself off. On an impulse, Gia took the rest of the books out of the bag.
“Would you like to see these?” she said, and plumped herself onto the couch next to Kavitha. She flipped open a book so that it lay across both their laps. Kavitha seemed surprised, but willing to look as Gia turned the pages.
Gia had chosen one of the many drawing books, a collection of ideas rather than a record of designs. These were impressions, sketches that hinted at shape and texture, dream dresses and possibilities. Some were just a few brush strokes. Others were more complete, but all were quick, vibrant, and colourful.
Many of the drawings were by Karel, some going as far back as his student days. Many were by her mother, but more and more these days, the books were filled with Gia’s own work.
At first Kavitha just looked politely, but after a few pages Gia sensed her awakening interest. She touched Gia’s hand to stop her turning a page. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tilting her head as she studied the drawing. Then she started turning the pages herself. Gia noticed that although Kavitha’s hands were elegant, her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Between turning pages she curled her fingers into her palms, hiding her nails from view.
Kavitha moved the book onto her own lap and paged rapidly forward, then back a few pages. She kept returning to the same page— one of Gia’s drawings, done at a time she’d been fascinated by all things Japanese.
“Do you like that one?” Gia asked, careful to keep her voice low.
The drawing was in blood-red ink, more detailed than most of the sketches. The design was deceptively simple, saved from stark modernity by the sculpted, many-folded drapes that echoed the traditional dress of the geisha.
Kavitha touched the drawing, clearly fascinated. Then she looked up at her mother, who was still deep in consultation with Saraswati, and sighed. It was as if she had allowed some part of her to unfold, and was now pulling it back again.
Gia once again felt that mixture of irritation and compassion. “Mom,” she said. “I think we’ve found it.”
She pulled the book from Kavitha’s unresisting grasp.
Saraswati looked up, startled, and then down at the drawing as Gia held it out to her. Mrs Pillay, caught mid-sentence, stared at Gia in open-mouthed surprise, then finished what she’d been saying.
“Ivory lace. What—?”
Saraswati, after a quick look at Gia, smiled at Kavitha. “Is this the one, Miss Pillay? An excellent choice. Possibly not in that colour—?”
Kavitha blinked, then lost her blank look. “Oh, no, of course,” she said. “Red would be absurd. Maybe something like that swatch that Mother has there.”
Mrs Pillay looked at her daughter, then down at the slip of ivory silk she’d been fingering.
“I agree,” said Saraswati. “Your mother has such excellent taste.”
“And there’s an outfit in there that would be perfect for you, Mother. You were just telling me that we should use the wedding as an opportunity to celebrate Indian culture.”
Gia let her take the book and Kavitha paged quickly to another drawing. “It’s like a sari, but more tailored. Isn’t it elegant?”
Mrs Pillay’s eyebrows went up. “I— well.” She looked at the drawings, then up at her daughter again. “Oh. Well. I was not planning on having anything specially made for myself,” said Mrs Pillay. “I was thinking to wear my Ci Hestler suit—”
“Oh, Mother, no,” said Kavitha. “The press will have a field day with that. You wore that to Praveshni’s wedding.”
“These sari designs are very flattering,” said Saraswati smoothly. “And you will certainly be very much in the public eye.”
For a moment, Mrs Pillay sat silent, her lips pursed. Then she slowly nodded. “Very well. It is true, I should have an outfit made, what with all the publicity the wedding will receive.”
She paged back to the wedding gown. “And Kavitha would look lovely in this. Although it is very bold.”
“Excellent,” said Saraswati. “Shall we do the measurements? Gia, could you get my notebook and measuring tape?”
-oOo-
The drive back to the Gardens Centre was much more relaxed, although Saraswati did not say anything, clearly not willing to speak in the driver’s hearing. It was only once the black car had pulled away, and they stood in the parking lot once again, that she threw back her head and laughed, then gathered Gia in for a fierce hug.
She stood back and stared at her daughter. “Gianetta Rosalia, you are more like your father than I ever realised. Poor Mrs Pillay never knew what hit her.”
Gia grinned back at her. “I could not bear to see that poor girl being just—” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Ignored like that. As if she weren’t even in the room.”
“Yes,” said Saraswati. “That woman has a will of iron. But I think the daughter is not quite as soft as she looks.” Saraswati got into the car and fastened her seatbelt. “That gown you chose will be murder to get right, but it will be a sensation. And Mrs Pillay’s outfit will be a breeze. A sari dress!” She laughed again. “We can whip that together, no trouble. Your father is going to be pleased.”
Gia waited a few minutes, until they were out of the parking lot. Then she said casually, “Fatima wants to know if I can go out with her tonight. Ben’s going too. They’ll lift me there and back.”
The “they” was not strictly honest. Fatima would be fetching her on her bike, and of course, there was just room for one passenger. Gia knew Saraswati would never agree to her going with Fatima on her bike. It was better to make it sound as if Fatima’s mother would be driving them all.
“Where are you going?” said Saraswati.
“Oh— to a movie, I think.”
“You think?” Saraswati lifted an eyebrow. But then she smiled again.
“Oh, very well. You’ve earned it. Back by eleven, as always. And you’ll have to ask your father first.”
“Thanks Mom!” said Gia, her texter out, already tapping a message.
She knew what her father would say.
-oOo-
Fatima’s red helmet nodded and Gia just had time to wrap her arms round Fatima’s waist before the road whipped out from under her feet. Her own helmet prevented her from looking up to check if anyone had seen them leave.
Forget about all that now. I can deal with Mom when I get back.
Racing round the corners on Fatima’s little bike was
utterly different from being in a car. The cold night air blew inside her jacket and down the gap at the back of her jeans. Headlights glared, and the road seemed very close. Fatima’s skirt fluttered back over Gia’s legs, and she guessed from the various hoots and shouts that they must make quite a sight.
She grinned to herself, inside the helmet, and leaned with Fatima as they took another corner.
The trip to town was a lot shorter from Walmer Estate than it had been when she still lived in Plumstead. A few minutes later they were waiting at an intersection on Long street, the bike buzzing beneath them. There was a small crowd of people standing on the sidewalk, staring upwards.
Gia tried to see what they were looking at.
It’s the lights. They’ve gone all weird.
Gia felt Fatima laugh. The traffic lights dimmed and glowed again, pulsing rhythmically. The pulse seemed to travel from light to light, like a signal, or as if the lights responded to something Gia could not sense. The colours were cycling too, from green to blue, through blue-white, to ice-white, warming to candlelight, sunlight, firelight and blood-orange.
Fatima said something, and Gia leaned forward to catch the words.
“They’re haunted,” said Fatima “I’ve heard they get like this sometimes, but I’ve never seen it. Isn’t it cool?”
She laughed again, but Gia felt a chill travel down her spine.
Haunted? How could a traffic light be haunted?
The flow and throb of the colours seemed to be more than random. It was like a message, a code she could decipher if she just stared at them long enough.
But Fatima had leaned forward and they were off again.
A few minutes later Fatima was chaining up her bike in front of the club, and Ben waved at them from the entrance.
“Hi!” he said. “I hope you guys brought your IDs, there’s a bouncer checking tonight.”
Gia could hear the music already, a dull beat that came up through the soles of her feet. She felt a thrill of excitement. She’d heard a lot about The Playground, but she’d never been to it before.
“Is there a band?” she asked.
Ben nodded. “Automatic Dread.”
A live band meant a higher cover charge. Gia hoped she had enough money on her.
“On me,” said Fatima. “This is your birthday treat, girl.”
She had her wallet out and walked up to the entrance, where the bouncer turned to face her. Gia felt her heart thump.
The bouncer was a troll. He filled the door, impossibly wide shoulders straining the black fabric of his suit. “Good evening, ladies,” he rumbled, staring down at Fatima.
Gia found she had stopped dead. She took a few steps closer.
Why is he staring at Fatima like that?
“Three, please,” said Fatima, holding out her money.
The troll took the notes and put them in a cash-box. His eyes glinted as he looked her slowly up and down.
“Nice jacket,” he said.
Oh, God. She’s wearing that troll-hunter jacket.
Gia cast Ben a horrified look, and saw from his expression that he’d realised what was going on. But Fatima was either unaware of the troll’s reaction, or she simply did not care. She pulled back a red sleeve and smiled up at him. The troll blinked down at her bare arm. Then with a shrug that might have been a laugh, he pressed his thumb first in an inkpad, then on her arm, leaving a print on her skin.
“Thanks!” said Fatima. “Come on, guys!” and she was gone inside the club. They stepped forward to follow her, but the troll put out a big hand to stop Ben.
“ID, please.”
Ben flipped open his wallet. “Why didn’t you ask her?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction Fatima had gone.
Gia started taking out her identity document, but the troll shook his head. “Don’t worry, darling.”
And then seeing Ben’s frown. “Ladies, dude. Ladies.”
He gestured with his thumb, and Ben and Gia held out their arms for their thumbprint stamps.
-oOo-
They went down to a basement level.
The passage was plastered with band posters and signs. There was the usual list of banned cultural weapons, “pickpockets active, watch your bag”, and a large red and yellow “No Ear Worms” sign that made Gia wonder if she should have brought earplugs.
You never knew what music might be played in a club like this.
Although it was early evening, there were already many people brushing past them on the stairs and crowding the dance floor. The music was loud and urgent, with a racing double beat that had Gia hopping. Ben would know what band it was, but all she cared about was getting out onto the dance floor.
The Playground had a reputation as a place where strange people hung out, and Gia looked curiously about her as she danced. The floor was a checker board of black-and-white tiles, and the walls and ceiling were black. It was hard to see anything else as the strobes kept glaring in her eyes. Fatima’s teeth glowed in the black-light, and Gia saw that Fatima had already attracted a couple of admirers, two young men who stood nearby but never did anything so uncool as to look directly at her.
Ben was also on the dance floor, but it was hard to tell if he was dancing, or just standing there with his hands in his pockets, occasionally shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
There were all kinds of people on the dance floor.
Two girls gyrating in the middle of the floor were certainly not human, although Gia was not sure what they were. They were far too broad to be human, and they moved with a massive grace. Gia noticed that the other dancers kept well clear of them.
A man nearly bumped into Gia, and as he turned to apologise she saw that what she’d taken to be a furry jacket was actually a ruff of fur growing from his naked back— he wore no shirt.
Some distance away, a thin girl clad all in black whipped her long, white hair as she danced. The hair flowed through the air as if in slow motion, the ends trailing off into puffs of white vapour.
Soon enough, swept up by the music, Gia forgot the other dancers. Clouds of dry ice filled the room and for a while everything was a ghostly mist, with glimpses of other dancers silhouetted against the flashing lights.
“Come. Drinks,” Fatima shouted in her ear, and dragged at her hand.
They found Ben and went up the stairs again, and then into a quieter room, where the music was a muffled beat in the distance. Gia’s ears rang, and she felt a little disoriented. She kept tripping over people sitting on the ground, until Fatima found them a corner near the back, on a heap of cushions.
“Back soon,” she said, and disappeared over to the bar.
“Wanna fairylight, Babe?” said someone, and she turned to find a bearded man grinning at her, holding a glowing vial. There was something inside it, something dark like a tiny body curled into itself.
“Fuck off, dude,” said Ben, sitting forward so that the man had to back off.
“Hey, chill,” he said, but he seemed oddly unaffected by Ben’s aggression. To Gia’s relief, the man disappeared back into the shadows.
Now that her eyes had grown used to the dark, she could see there were people huddled up against the walls, cupping little vials in their hands, their faces bathed in the soft glow.
“Sparkle-heads,” said Ben. He swallowed as if he’d tasted something bad. “Wasters. Stay away from them, Gia, okay?”
“Sure,” said Gia. Fatima returned with a beer for each of them, and Gia lay back against the pillows again.
A change in the flow of people moving into the chill room told them that the band had started playing, and they went back to the dance-floor.
Automatic Dread turned out to be not quite a band. The act consisted of a skinny white guy behind a pile of electronic equipment: multiple black boxes covered in knobs and sliders. The stage was a web of cables, among which Automatic Dread moved like an anxious spider, constantly adjusting, tweaking, plugging and unplugging.
But the mu
sician soon became irrelevant as Gia was carried away by the sounds he created. She could almost see the music as it exploded around her, rusty blocks of sound, or huge chains that strained almost on the edge of breaking.
The first hint that something else was happening came from the lights.
The hectic white of the strobes slowed and softened, flickered and faded like candlelight. Tiny dots of luminescence drifted out over the dancers, who reached out to catch them. Gia, pulled back into herself, noticed that Automatic Dread was frowning at his equipment. He looked up, trying to see somebody at the back of the dance floor.
Something’s wrong.
The music played on, but it seemed to slow and drag, pulsing in time to the fading lights. Gia stopped dancing, her attention on the person who now joined Automatic Dread on stage, a technician of some kind. The sound had lost all its brilliance and become a foggy booming moan, like huge waves. Gia felt it rolling through her, shaking her to the bone.
Once again, as she had with the haunted traffic lights, she felt everything around her respond to some secret signal. But this time she was on the cusp of receiving it herself, as though she was being tuned closer and closer to the right frequency.
Words began to form in the music, but they were too loud, or too slow to understand. The men on stage were frantically pulling on sliders and switches but their actions had no effect on the sound.
Gia closed her eyes and strained to catch the words.
The almost-voice rumbled in her chest, a long, groaning sigh.
“O— oh,” it said, stretching out the word across the room from dancer to dancer.
“Ss— o— h— o— w”.
Gia was only half aware that the movement of the dancers around her had changed. Everyone was moving together, swaying in response to the sound.
“Soh— oh— so— o— ow”
With a tingle of horror Gia realised that the voice was coming out of her own throat, and from the dancers that surrounded her. They were all sighing out the words that moved through the music. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Automatic Dread rip out cable after cable, and look desperately out at the room as nothing changed.
Crooks and Straights Page 11
