The Child Garden

by Geoff Ryman

  ‘Yes. I have to do the shopping myself,’ said Ms Will.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Milena asked, feeling false. I ignore people, she thought, until I need them. It’s like the chicken. Thrawn was right.

  ‘If you like, I’m not doing anything special,’ said Ms Will. ‘I never do anything special. It’s different for you artists.’ Ms Will waited, staring into space as Milena’s feet applauded their way down the steps. Milena half ran to her across the woven floor.

  ‘The weather has been lovely,’ said Milena.

  ‘Oh, it’s far too hot,’ said Ms Will. Behind Ms Will, unseen by her, the walls started to ooze mucus, and there was a whisper of sound, a voice in the air, a reminder. Thrawn was still with her. As if prodded, Milena walked on.

  The main gate had been left open, so the air could flow through the house. The sunlight they stepped into was blistering, blinding. The ground was white, as bleached as bone. The What Does woman was hanging out sheets and underwear. They burned white in the sun. Already there was a smell of rotting reed. Already the grass on the bank was brown and brittle. A slope of mud led down towards the narrowing channel.

  Everything was already going dry.

  The What Does, Ms Marks, called out to them.

  ‘Wonderful weather for sheets. They dry as soon as you look at them!’ Suddenly Ms Marks’ smile sprouted fangs and an eel’s head glared out from between her teeth. Look! thought Milena and tried to pull Ms Will around. Then the image was gone. Ms Will blinked up at her, only momentarily distracted from her complete absorption in herself.

  Milena kept thinking. The eel’s head and that buffalo carcass were very good. Thrawn is using references. She’s in a market somewhere, somewhere with beef carcasses and fish. Milena walked towards the quay. It no longer reached the water. The bank of the Ark ended, high over the edge of the water. From the kilns, smoke still drifted, and the formless choir of Remembrance still sung in the distance.

  Ms Will took Milena’s arm, as if she were a What Does companion. ‘It’s not good for you, all this sun,’ said Ms Will. ‘I got a terrible sunburn yesterday, just sitting out on the balcony. And it puts you straight off your food. You’re never hungry. I told our girl Emily to come up with something especially appetising. But she can’t change, won’t change. No, it’s tamales again.’ Ms Will had not the least idea that she was extraordinarily privileged.

  ‘It’s so difficult to remember to eat,’ Milena agreed.

  ‘Well Emily blames the shortages. I can’t fault her there. The perfect excuse. Isn’t it ridiculous? Food shortages now that we have electricity.’

  ‘There are a lot of people to feed,’ said Milena, keeping her voice mild. ‘And all this sun is lovely, but it’s very bad for farming. A lot of the land crops have just burned up.’

  ‘It’s the costermongers, too, of course,’ said Ms Will. ‘I think they engineer these shortages, just to put up the price. Making everyone else pay. I don’t want to eat tamales for the rest of my life. So I’m just going to have to do the shopping myself.’

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, she’s so boring, thought Milena. Fear made her more irritable.

  ‘I’d like some bananas,’ said Ms Will. ‘Just for a change. I’d like something different.’ The flesh of her face hung dead on her skull. The smoke of the dead from the Estate lay overhead. They waited for a punt, in the full, glaring horrible light.

  I have an enemy, thought Milena. And I am alone.

  Eventually a boat came past, punted by a stringy, burnished old man in his mid-thirties. Ms Will needed to be helped down off the Ark and into the boat. She let her full weight rest on the withered arms of the dying man.

  As she sat down, Ms Will complained that it was so far to the market. Party Members should have their own market, she felt.

  ‘I find it awfully difficult to get anyone to pay any attention when I’m talking,’ said Ms Will. ‘Do you find that? People can be so extraordinarily cruel for no reason.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Milena. She was thinking about the light all around them. Light was her enemy, too. The holograms were exchanges of light. Light in one place was exchanged for light in another, through the fifth dimension, where thought and light could interact. But it was a reciprocal exchange. Only as much could be donated as was received. So I could live in the dark, too, thought Milena. She looked down into the water. It was opaque, like moving gelatin, but in its depths, she could see the heads and hands of children swimming. They had long reeds in their mouths that broke the surface and let them breathe. They hunted for fish or for snails.

  And suddenly, just under the water, she saw Thrawn. Thrawn was a corpse and a fish was nibbling the flesh of her face. Milena looked up and away.

  ‘My skin feels so peculiar,’ said Ms Will.

  It seethed with worms, just under the surface, as if they would eat their way out any moment. You can’t imagine flowers, Thrawn, thought Milena, but you can imagine that.

  There was a niggling in Milena’s nose. She sneezed. The tickle grew worse. She sneezed again. She began to sneeze over and over. Her head tossed helplessly from side to side. Her nose and eyes streamed, trying to eliminate the tickle. The tickle suddenly took shape. It became a voice, resonating in the bones of Milena’s skull.

  ‘Achoo!’ it said, in mocking imitation. ‘Hello, Milena.’ The voice sounded like her own. ‘Think of me as a virus. You have caught a conscience from somewhere. You have committed a grave injustice, of which you are deeply ashamed. You hurt Thrawn McCartney. You must make amends.’

  She knows I can’t answer back, thought Milena. I am with someone, and I can’t start talking to myself in public. Or, again, people will think I’m the crazy one.

  ‘This is your own voice, Milena. Your own mind is telling you what is right. Your own mind is telling you: go to the Zoo and tell them you want Thrawn to be part of the Comedy.’

  What now? wondered Milena in dismay. What game is this now?

  Until October, she thought, I just have to hold out until October. In October, I’ll be made Terminal, and the Consensus will see what’s happening and…And then Milena understood what the game was. She groaned and hid her face.

  ‘You’d never believe it, but I used to have a beautiful complexion,’ said Ms Will, feeling her seething cheeks. The worms had pincers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Will, I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well,’ said Milena.

  It was quite simple. Thrawn had never once admitted that she was sending holograms. She was saying that Milena was producing the images herself, out of a bad conscience.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me about illness,’ said Ms Will. ‘Not with my back, my kidneys. And all the Nurses can say is that I’m making it all up.’

  When I am made Terminal, all the Consensus will know is that someone they have never Read is seeing impossible things and thinking that someone else, someone she dislikes, is beaming them at her.

  When I am made Terminal, the Consensus will think I’m the crazy one.

  ‘I told you the light was too strong,’ said Ms Will.

  The thirty-five-year-old boatboy punted them to the floating market. It was some five kilometres away from the smoke of the funereal Estate.

  As if in Remembrance, everyone in the market sang, another formless chorus, but this one sounded joyful. People sang of onions piled high in their punts, or of lotus fresh and crisp. They sang of reed blankets, soft as a kiss. They sang of fish steamed with ginger, or frogs’ legs in garlic. Instead of black smoke, there was a sizzling sound and wafts of spicy food.

  ‘Stop here, boy,’ said Ms Will.

  He grabbed hold of a mooring post and pulled them in next to a barge that sold fruit. A woman of about sixteen looked up at them and beamed. Her shirt was printed in colours and patterns that seemed to jump and dance. A flower, a water lily, was wound into her hair. Oh, to be as safe and happy as you, thought Milena.

  Ms Will complained that there were no bananas.

  ‘
Bananas mostly grow on the Continent,’ the woman explained. ‘That’s burned dry.’

  ‘They should grow them here,’ said Ms Will. She bought water chestnuts instead. Ms Will saved bags. The bags were made of resin and were slithery to hold. Milena blinked. She seemed to have something in her eye.

  The bag was filled and without saying a word, Ms Will held it out towards Milena to carry it for her. How miserable it must be to be you, thought Milena. She felt a surge of sympathy for Ms Will. It can be so difficult to be happy. Milena took one bag, and then another. Whatever was in her eye became increasingly irritating.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ms Will. ‘I’ve forgotten my money. Could you pay for this?’

  So much for sympathy. Milena was going to look for her purse. Ms Will’s face became a smear. Water streamed out of her eyes.

  ‘Could you take the bags for a moment?’ Milena asked. ‘I’ve got to get my money out.’

  Ms Will looked glum. ‘I’m not sure I can hold them,’ she said.

  ‘Well then I can’t get my money out,’ said Milena, with a slightly exasperated chuckle. She blinked trying to clear her eyes. Sunlight wriggled on the water, searing.

  Ms Will reluctantly took the bags, and Milena pulled out her purse.

  The light from the water swam in the water in her eyes.

  Then it focused blazing inside them.

  ‘Ow!’ howled Milena.

  The light drew even brighter into hard fierce knots. Milena was screaming, and threw her head to one side. The wriggling light seemed to swim after her, like worms. It was as if plasma direct from the sun had been planted in her eyes. She could feel the jelly in them heat up.

  She screamed and dropped the purse. She was dimly aware of the sound of coins rolling out over the prow of the boat.

  Lady, Lady, said voices all around her. Milena was aware that she was making an animal sounds, a high helpless screeching. Her hands were pressed over her eyes, tears streaming between her fingers. There was darkness. There was relief. No light at all to exchange. She sobbed helplessly as the pain subsided, as purple patterns floated glowing on her retina.

  ‘We’ll get your purse, Lady. We’ll get your money,’ someone was saying.

  There was inside her ear, a shivering. The shivering took shape into a voice.

  ‘You don’t like the light, do you, Milena? It shows the truth.’ Her eyes screwed shut, Milena jammed her fingers into her ears.

  It seemed as if there was a fly buzzing just inside her nostrils. The fly spoke with a buzzing voice, resonating out of the bones of her septum and cheeks and sinuses.

  ‘Hear no evil. See no evil. Must be a first time for you,’ said the voice. ‘You’re going to go to the Zoo, Milena. You’re going to go to the Zoo to tell them you want Thrawn McCartney to work on the Comedy.’

  Then, like a ghost, it was gone.

  Milena opened her eyes. Her cheeks were smeared with tears, and there were still burning purple shapes hovering in front of her eyes. She very nearly blinded me, thought Milena.

  ‘Where’s my money?’ she asked. ‘Does someone have my money?’

  The viruses had made people scrupulously honest.

  ‘Yes, Lady, the boys dived for it. They found some of it for you.’ It was the flower girl, pressing wet coins into her hand.

  ‘Is there enough for a punt or a taxi there?’ Milena sniffed. ‘I can’t see!’ Milena’s voice broke with distress and fear. Damn her. She’s got me dancing like a puppet. Consoling hands held her.

  Yes, oh, yes, said many people, all around her.

  ‘I have to see someone at the Zoo,’ Milena whispered. ‘They may be able to help.’ She felt herself being helped towards another boat.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Ms Will. ‘What about my fruit and chestnuts?’

  ‘You can pay for those later,’ the flower girl told Ms Will. I bet she doesn’t, thought Milena.

  Many hands lowered her into another punt. A cushion was moved behind her.

  Milena felt the boat wobble sideways away from the mooring. It moved out onto the water. She felt the tickle in her ear. It seemed to shiver into place.

  ‘Good girl,’ said the voice in her ear, as if to a dog. ‘Good little Milena. You always try to do the right thing. You have such high standards of behaviour.’

  Milena settled back on the cushion, and drew a deep, trembling breath. I need a kerchief to tie around my eyes, she thought. I need plugs for my ears.

  Someone started to sing, from the prow of the boat.

  Lady oh lay hah

  Lady remember me?

  It’s the boy, she thought, it’s the same boy who brought me out here.

  Are you ill, Lady?

  Are you ill like me?

  Ill? thought Milena. ‘Are you a Singer?’ she asked. He hadn’t been a Singer a week ago.

  Now I am Lady

  I have to sing to speak

  This far? It’s come out this far already? And Milena had a saddening thought: I’m the only thing that’s come out this far. What if I brought it with me?

  ‘Sing then,’ she asked the boy.

  ‘Poison,’ said the voice in her ear. ‘You are poison.’

  All the way back across the Slump, the boy sang. He ran out of songs, and began to make up music without words. It was as if he was singing about the beauty of the world that Milena could no longer see. When she ventured to open her eyes, she would catch a glimpse of blue water and soft, silver-grey reeds. Then the light in her eyes was scattered, disturbed. It dissolved into a shapeless, queasy, oily mass. Thrawn was in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you just love games?’ whispered the voice.

  I have to be able to see the cube, thought Milena. She can stop me hologramming. She can stop me doing the Comedy. Does that matter? The important thing is that the Comedy is produced. I could just go to Moira and say, this is too much, I can’t do it, get someone else. But then, Thrawn might be able to persuade them to use her as a technician, and that does matter. And there is no guarantee that she would stop doing this to me.

  I have to find a way to protect myself against this somehow. There must be some way to cut off the light, make it difficult for her to focus.

  Milena opened her eyes. For a moment, she could see the world. Then it melted. She moved her head, and the world returned, before subsiding again into a chaos of colour. She moved her head once more, and then the light flared up hot and dazzling again.

  ‘Ow,’ said Milena again and went still.

  The band of focus was small in itself, with plenty of opportunity for error. And Thrawn needed enough light to focus in the first place.

  And suddenly, Milena had an answer. In the Cut the week before, there had been a Seller of Games, a great booming woman with a very high, but very loud voice. She had been a Singer, too.

  Have you got friends who can’t see themselves?

  Have you chum who’s a bum?

  It’s easily done, no mystery

  With a little item from history…

  She had been selling mirrored contact lenses. A joke, another game.

  Mirrored lenses would reflect light.

  Yes, yes, the mirror would reflect light, make focusing very difficult indeed, and it would cut down on the amount of light inside the eye that Thrawn had to play with. Thrawn would always have to focus in from the back, instead of the front. Milena’s viruses calculated the intensity of light, the resulting possible strength of any Reformed image.

  It would be enough. It would have to be enough.

  So how was Milena to get to the Cut to buy them?

  ‘Take me to the Embankment Garden quay,’ she told the singing boy. ‘That’s the one closest to the Zoo.’

  The only way I can go to the Cut without Thrawn blinding me is to get lost. I have to get lost on my way to the Zoo and end up there as if by mistake. The only way I can do that is to make her mad enough to blind me with light. That means I have to make her angry.

  ‘So you’ve won, Thrawn,’ said Mi
lena, aloud.

  Silence.

  ‘Thrawn? You can answer me now.’

  Milena felt a tiny fist of light clenching in her eyes, and she closed them, and covered them with her hands. That left her ears exposed, and her skin open to the light. Fire suddenly crawled over the bare flesh of her arms, just under the skin. A worm seemed to writhe just inside her ear.

  ‘This isn’t Thrawn. It’s you, yourself. Remember that,’ warned the worm.

  I can get you mad, thought Milena. So I can control you.

  ‘You see, Milena, there is justice sometimes after all. You can’t get away with using people forever.’

  Silence and darkness, those are my friends, thought Milena.

  Milena reeled into the New Cut market, into the Summer of Song. Everyone sang, even those who did not have the disease, just to be part of the fun. It was a new craze. Milena stumbled blindly, buffeted by people she could not see.

  ‘These daytime drunks are everywhere!’ someone exclaimed to the opening bars of Beethoven’s ‘Song of Joy.’

  Song was all around her, in waves. ‘Where are you? Where are you?’ the voice in her ear demanded.

  ‘I don’t know! I’m lost! You won’t let me see!’

  Waves of song washed over her. The voice in her ear said something Milena could not hear. A wall of song bore down on her.

  Oh I do like to be beside the seaside!

  Someone pulled her to one side. There was a whizzing of bicycles, just past the tips of her toes. Milena’s vision cleared. Trolleymen on bicycles sizzled past her, pulling their wagons full of hot food behind them.

  Oh I do like to be beside the sea!

  Two women were just by her elbow, at a fruit stall. They were singing new words to ‘The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’ The effect was delightfully, prinklingly sarcastic.

  Oh you can’t sell just one orange

  How int’resting, oh how strange

  Other markets can.

  The voice of Thrawn screeched in Milena’s ear. ‘You’re in the Cut? You’re in the bloody Cut? How did you get there?’