An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  “Why cut off the limbs?” I ask.

  “Convenience,” he says. “They fit into a smaller box that way.”

  “What happens next?” I ask, shuddering at his good-natured indifference.

  “We stack them until we’ve got fifteen or sixteen,” he says, “then cart them to the body dump. That’s a big field where all the bodies of the dead wind up.”

  “Can anyone go there?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he laughs, “though why you’d want to beats me.”

  “Thanks for your time,” I say and hang up, then let myself out and hail a public car to take me to the dump.

  The body dump’s little more than a huge, desolate waste area in which scores of small brown boxes have been junked. I’d like to get out and search some of them but the place is full of animals – even a couple of stray lykans who must have slipped through the net as the wolfer warned – ripping open coffins and feasting on the remains of the dead.

  The driver – his name’s Conor – taps his wheel uneasily and keeps a careful eye on the animals closest the car. “Never been here before,” he mutters, “and I never want to come again. This place gives me the chills.”

  “Who stacks the boxes?” I ask.

  “The dumpmen,” he replies. “The boxers bring them to the edge of the dump and leave them there for the dumpmen to sort.”

  “Where do the dumpmen hang out?” I ask.

  “Dunno,” Conor says, “and I don’t care. You want to look for them, fine, out you hop and off you set. Me, I’m sitting tight and getting the snuff out of here at the first sign of trouble.”

  I’d like to meet one of the dumpmen, to ask how many boxes they process on an average day, but I don’t dare risk being stranded. Finding a public car out here would, I’d imagine, be damn near impossible. I do a rough count of the coffins — as near as I can make out, there can’t be more than three hundred, which is peanuts for a city this size.

  “Are there other body dumps?” I ask.

  “Nah,” Conor says.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Isn’t one enough? They should burn the snuffing bodies, not leave them here for scavengers. Ready to go?” Conor asks, edgy and impatient.

  I stare at a tiger-like creature gnawing on the bones of an unidentifiable corpse. The snapping noises would have put the fear of God into me in the other world but I’ve seen worse in my time here. I’m trying to figure out what happened to the people killed by the lykans. They obviously haven’t been brought here – I’ve no way of knowing how many perished at the hands of the lykans, but the number must have been in the thousands – so where did they end up? Maybe they were dumped outside the city boundaries. If that’s the case, the dead might be able to point the way out of this city, but only if I can track them down.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Conor snaps, losing his nerve. “I’m getting out. You with me or not?”

  “OK,” I sigh, sliding away from the glassless window. “Take me…” Where? Where should I start my search for the dead and those who deal with them? No point asking him to take me to the edge of town — he wouldn’t know what that means. “Just take me back where we came from,” I decide and spend the rest of the ride reflecting on which of the limited avenues available to me I should next set out to explore.

  I continue working at Kipp’s. Business isn’t as good as it was but my wages have increased since he can’t afford to let me go — without the small crowds my act pulls in he’d probably have to close. I’m still in a relationship with Cheryl, though I’m investing less time and effort in it these days. Who can concentrate on affairs of the heart when there are riddles the length and breadth of London’s Tube system to be unravelled? Cheryl’s confused and dismayed by my emotional withdrawal but she’s prepared to overlook it for the time being, hoping I’ll get over whatever’s bugging me and find my way back to her.

  I spend my days travelling, asking questions of strangers while simultaneously trying to map the city streets. I apply my own names for future reference, most of them borrowed from London, thus my maps include references to Great Russell Street, the Strand, Embankment, Oxford Street and so on. Hey, I never claimed to be original. I’m a trouble-shooter, not a wordsmith.

  My questions yield no answers but I don’t let that deter me. I’ll go through every single citizen if I have to, then go through them again in case their memories improve in the interim. At least this way I’m exercising some sort of control over my destiny. It’s better than lounging around, waiting for the moon to flare and lykans to come a-knocking on my door.

  I’m stopping random pedestrians in Fleet Street – about five hundred metres north of Franz’s as the crow flies (not that any crows fly here — I’ve seen no birds in the city) – when bugle-like sounds fill the air and people drop to the floor, spreading themselves flat. I cast a panicked glance at the sun but it’s its usual colour. Not wanting to appear out of place, I drop to a knee and try pinpointing the origin of the bugles.

  A minute passes. Two or three. Then, sweeping round the corner that leads – if memory serves me correct – into the Old Kent Road, comes the strangest parade I’ve ever witnessed. Painted drones march at the fore, their skin daubed wildly with orange, pink and yellow paint. They’re followed by two kangaroos which hop along in an orderly manner. After the kangaroos there’s a large bus, decorated with flowers, various breeds of chattering monkeys visible through the windows. On top of the bus sits a man dressed in a flowing, multicoloured gown, liberally tossing handfuls of drone teeth over the supplicant crowds. Behind the bus trail gaggles of sandmen, wolfers and baggers, laughing and chatting among themselves. Bringing up the rear, more drones, with brushes that they clean the roads with as they pass.

  I remain on my knee as the leading drones and kangaroos march (and hop) by. The man on top of the bus waves to me but I ignore him. My eyes are focused on the sandmen and co. to the rear. I get to my feet as the bus crawls past and step into the road to attract the attention of the parading humans. A wolfer spots me and frowns. “Roos,” he shouts. “An agitator. Get him!”

  “No,” I say, hurrying towards him, smiling, “I’m not an agita–”

  Something clumps the back of my head. I yell painfully and hit the pavement. Flipping around, I see the kangaroos, snarling and advancing menacingly. I always thought boxing kangaroos were fictional. Seems – in this city at least – that I underestimated the legends.

  As I raise my hands to defend myself, the man on top of the bus issues a command. “Stop that,” he snaps and the marsupials immediately adopt a more passive stance. “Bus — halt,” the man barks and the vehicle slows to a standstill. The man walks to the edge of the roof, studies me, then jumps down and lands gracefully at my feet. Picking himself up, he brushes dust from his robes and smiles engagingly. “Are you the one who calls himself Newman Riplan?” he asks, eyes glittering. I nod numbly. “You’re from an other place, aren’t you? From the –” He waves a hand vaguely. “– outside world, yes?”

  “Yes,” I gasp, astonished.

  “Thought so,” he grins, then grabs my left hand and pumps it amiably. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he says, then adds, though he needn’t have, as I’ve already guessed his identity, “I’m the Alchemist. How do you do?”

  The Alchemist hands his drone teeth to one of the monkeys, sends it up to take his place on top of the bus, then gives an order for the procession to continue without him. One of the wolfers – the one who first noticed me – asks if he should stay with us. “No,” the Alchemist says. “I wish to exchange a few words in private with Mr Riplan. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  The wolfer appears uneasy but accepts his commander’s orders. As the last of the drones file past, the Alchemist checks the neighbourhood and spots a cosy nourishment house. “Shall we?” he asks, pointing towards it.

  “Sure,” I murmur light-headedly. “Whatever.”

  And off we trot.

  “Yo
u know what the outside world is,” I whisper.

  We’re tucking into a light meal of thinly carved drone slices. The Alchemist gulps his food down almost without chewing.

  “You know what the outside world is,” I say again when he fails to respond. This time he looks up and nods. “How? Nobody else does.”

  He shrugs and points to his mouth, which is full of food.

  “Never mind that,” I growl, leaning forward aggressively over the table. “What is this place? Where am I? How can I get back to the real world?”

  “This…” The Alchemist swallows his last morsel of food and washes it down with a glass of sap. “This is the real world.”

  “Bullshit,” I hiss. “The world I come from is the real one. This is a joke of a place, a cruel mockery of my own realm.”

  “Really?” he smiles, unoffended. “In that case, why don’t you return home?”

  “I can’t,” I moan.

  “How strange,” he purrs. “One would think the draw of the real world would be stronger than its fantastical counterpart. Could it be that this, as I’ve claimed, is real and the other was but a product of your imagination?”

  I smile icily. “If that was the case, how come you know about it? If it only existed inside my head…”

  “A sound argument,” he admits. “Alas for you, my answer trumps it. I know about your world because I’ve met others who labour under the weight of similar delusions, people like you who believe there are other cities and lands, an entirely different universe, a world in which time is carefully measured and recorded, in which memories of the past stand side-by-side with those of the present, in which the moon and sun remain constant, in which glass is as commonplace as water, in which drones don’t exist, in which… I could go on, but do I need to? Is this the world you believe you hail from? Have I described it accurately?”

  I nod slowly. “So I’m not the first to cross between the two worlds? There have been others?”

  “Many,” the Alchemist says. “At the moment you’re the only one but sometimes there have been five or six here at the same time. Confused, instinctless creatures, full of strange tales of aeroplanes, televisions and computers.” He shakes his head. “If this world of yours does exist, it would be an interesting place to visit.”

  “But you couldn’t visit it,” I reply. “You can’t get out of this city, can you?”

  “No,” he sighs, “I cannot. I’m not even sure what that means, though I believe my vague understanding – constructed over the course of many conversations such as this one – isn’t so different to your perceived actuality. I’ve given a lot of thought to it over the… years is the term you use, is it not? A period of three hundred and sixty-five days?” He smirks when I look surprised. “I can’t measure time as you do, but I can comprehend it. Weeks, months, years. In practice those terms mean nothing to me, but in theory I can absorb and reflect upon them.”

  “You’re the only one I’ve met who’s able to do that,” I note.

  “Because I’m different to other people,” he says. “I’m the Alchemist.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I ask. “Do you control the city? Did you build it? Are these people your servants? Your children?”

  “Please,” he laughs, “not so many questions or you’ll set my head spinning.”

  The owner of the nourishment house approaches, nervously wringing his hands. “Is everything to your satisfaction, gentlemen?” he asks, trying not to cringe as he comes face-to-face with the fabled Alchemist.

  “Everything is wonderful,” the Alchemist says.

  “Would you care for dessert?” the owner asks, beaming proudly. “On the house, of course.”

  “I will have dessert,” the Alchemist decides, “but I’ll pay for it. No,” he says, as the owner opens his mouth to argue, “I always pay my way.”

  “As you wish,” the owner chuckles and retires to fetch a menu.

  “I can’t tell you the name of this city,” the Alchemist murmurs, his eyes fixed intently on mine, “because it doesn’t have one. I can’t describe the founding of the city because my inherent understanding of time doesn’t allow for such devices as starts and finishes. As I see it, the city has always been here, as have I. Other people come and go, but the Alchemist stands firm.”

  “Like a god?” I ask wryly.

  “Ah, gods,” he grins. “Several of your kind have mistaken me for one. It’s embarrassing when they do. I’m not a god. I’m a caretaker. I watch over these people, cater to their needs, make life as pleasant for them as it can be. I arrange the distribution of drones — and no, in answer to the question I see forming, I don’t know where they come from. They arrive at what you call the airport and that is all I can tell you about them.”

  “You control the sandmen?” I ask and he nods. “Why aren’t more bags of sand made available? If you care for these people, why let so many be slaughtered?”

  He shrugs. “The sun and moon change occasionally, but if there’s a pattern, I can’t predict it. When I sense a change coming on, I summon my sandmen. There is a room – we call it, unimaginatively I must admit, the room of sand – and when we have all gathered outside, I open the door and enter. In the room I find bags of sand. Sometimes there are many, other times few. I hand them out and the sandmen disperse. That’s the way it works. I don’t know where the bags come from or how they get in the room or why there are so many or so few. That’s why I’m not akin to these gods of your world. Unlike them, I’m merely a cog in the machine. I know more than the people I protect, but I don’t have all the answers or anywhere near.”

  “You don’t know how the magic works?” I ask.

  “Haven’t a clue,” he chuckles.

  “You’ve never tried keeping a few bags aside, for use in an emergency?”

  “That would not be proper,” he tuts.

  “Says who?” I ask.

  He taps the side of his head with his fingers. “The voice in here. The voice of instinct. You don’t have such a voice, do you?”

  “Not as you’ve described it, no.”

  “Your kind never do,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve often wondered which comes first, the dream world or the loss of instinct. Perhaps this other world is your brain’s way of compensating for the lack of understanding which would steer you safely through this one. Or perhaps you lost your instinct when you dallied in your world of dreams.”

  “Or of reality,” I add sharply.

  He smiles condescendingly, then cocks his head. “Tell me, if your world is real, what do you think that makes this one?”

  I shift uneasily in my seat. “I’m not sure.”

  “But you’ve thought about it?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  “And your conclusions?”

  “It could be an alternate universe.”

  He frowns. “That term escapes me.”

  “It’s an idea scientists and science-fiction writers in my world have posited,” I explain. “They think there might be more than one universe, that different worlds are capable of inhabiting the same space at the same time.”

  He thinks it over. “An interesting thought, but if such worlds existed, don’t you think crossing from one to another – as you and others before you have done – would be common? Wouldn’t channels have been opened between neighbouring universes, and ideas and cultures exchanged?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I sniff. “I haven’t given such matters much thought.”

  “If this isn’t an alternate universe,” he says, “what then?”

  “It could be a vision. A mental aberration. Something my subconscious has constructed within the confines of my brain.”

  “In which case,” he smiles, “that would make you the god. If this is your mind, this is your city. You should be able to do as you please. Can you?”

  I shake my head slowly, helplessly.

  “What other options have you considered?” he asks.

  “I could be dead,�
�� I croak.

  He frowns. “You don’t look dead to me.”

  “Dead in my world,” I mumble. “I’ve been back there a few times — sleeping pills allow me to return. The last couple of occasions, I seemed to be dead. That would make this the afterlife.”

  The Alchemist’s frown deepens. “What’s that?”

  “Where I come from, many people believe in a world beyond our own. They think people live on after their body dies, that part of them survives.”

  “I see,” he says, though he sounds uncertain. “But if this is a place where the dead people of your world come, wouldn’t the rest of us have died there too, and so share your memories of it?”

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “One of the afterworlds my people believe in is called Heaven, and we’re told that creatures called angels live there.”

  “You think we’re angels?” the Alchemist asks, no trace of irony in his question.

  “No,” I smile, “but you could be indigenous. Or you might have come from my world but lost your memories along the way.”

  “Hmm,” the Alchemist says. “Intriguing. But if that was the case, don’t you…”

  The desserts arrive, cold drone innards, and we tuck in, abandoning the conversation for a time — the Alchemist isn’t one to gabble and gobble. He pays the bill when we finish and we take our leave. We stroll along unnoticed in the streets, people paying no attention to us. His gown keeps snagging, meaning we have to stop frequently in order for him to adjust it.

  “Where do the people of this city come from?” I ask. “You told me earlier that they come and go, but nobody I’ve spoken with seems to know anything about birth or ageing.”

  “Birth…” he reflects. “I’ve discussed birth with your fellow outsiders. You believe humans reproduce, that men and women mate and create babies, who grow and spawn children of their own?”