by Zizou Corder
Soon enough the tram drew up to a smooth green lawn, where they got off. Sally-Ann led Charlie towards a rather glamorous hut. It was made of strong wooden poles, and its walls were mostly billowy gauzy curtains. The floor was marble. It seemed to be a bedroom. A gaggle of bright parrots sat in a row on the roofbeam, then with a tremendous racket took off, flashing their brilliant underwings.
‘Look!’ Sally-Ann said, pointing round the corner of the veranda that surrounded the hut. There was a huge shower, there in the open air, sheltered from public gaze (not that there seemed to be any public) by a floaty tumble of purply-pink flowers. But as Charlie looked closer, he saw that it wasn’t actually a shower. It was a fountain. Warm. For washing in.
‘I’ll bring you some clean things,’ she said nicely.
Charlie smiled blankly. The beauty, the kindness, the fresh air, the sunshine – it was too much for him. As Sally-Ann turned away, Charlie gently put Ninu and his medicine and his mother’s Improve-Everything Lotion in a pile on the enormous bed. Ninu and he looked at each other.
‘There are probably hidden cameras everywhere,’ Charlie murmured in Cat.
Ninu narrowed his eyes and valiantly did his best to look like a plastic toy.
In the fountain, the weeks of salt and sweat and dirt washed off Charlie in great slooshes of refreshing, palm-shaded coolness. That part was plainly wonderful. He grabbed the soap and scrubbed at his nappy head, frothed up his armpits and even washed between his toes. The fountain of water jetted up out of the ground. The delicious scent of the air was so easy to breathe … Perhaps, he thought, if I stand under the water, less air will get into me …
That’s a stupid thing to think.
Is that me becoming stupid? Is it starting?
He just stood in the dappled sunlight and let the fountain’s fall drench him.
With a clean white towel round his middle, Charlie returned to his hut. Clothes had been laid out for him – cool easy trousers and a T-shirt. He looked around for his jacket – there it was, safely hung on a chair.
As he returned to the veranda, he looked out at the view: sparkling sea, rustling palms toing and froing gently, a sweep of green hillside so fluffy and perfect, it could have been done by a hairdresser, and beyond, the fine yellow sun just beginning to slip towards the west.
He was really hungry. He caught sight of the veranda table, laid out with – well, a really nice meal. There was a slice of salmon, potato salad, beans, mayonnaise, mangoes, chocolate cake with cream.
Do they put stuff in the food as well? he wondered. Should I not eat?
He stared at the food for quite a long time.
I can’t starve myself to death, he thought. There’s nothing else for me to eat. Nowhere else I can go.
Charlie pulled up a chair and started to tuck in.
Well, he thought, this is really very nice.
He was shocked at the thought – was that him being brainwashed? How could he think it was nice – it was getting to him!
He put down his fork and went inside.
One of the veils had been drawn back to reveal a television. Charlie hadn’t watched telly since he didn’t know when. And he’d never watched a telly like this – its plasma screen was the size of half the wall.
He stretched out on the bed with the remote control and began to channel-surf. Comedies, films, football games, family fun, quizzes, more comedies, baseball games, snooker, news, more films, murder programmes, detective programmes, pop music, ads, ads, ads …
Were the ads getting inside his head? Were there subliminal messages in among the programmes, affecting his brain?
He watched for hours.
He fell asleep.
In the video surveillance unit, Sally-Ann turned to Seventeen’s Assigned Companion, who was watching Seventeen doing exactly the same thing in a hut across the way from Charlie’s, and said cheerfully, ‘Excellent! Charlie seems to be settling right in! How’s your girl doing?’
‘Doing just fine!’ said the other companion with a friendly smile. ‘I think they’re all going to be really happy with us!’
And in the HCE office, the HCE, listening through his commchip, smiled too.
From his hiding place in Old Yeller’s one tatty lifeboat, Sergei had watched Charlie go ashore. He’d rested his chin on his paws, and thought, I hope he’s as tough as his old parents. I hope he’s tougher.
And then he’d brought his back legs up to perch on the bulwark of the boat between his forelegs, before shooting himself swiftly on to the jetty. Under the shrubbery for purposes of discretion, he’d followed Charlie and the young woman to the tram, then hopped up on to the back as they settled in the front.
After Sally-Ann had left the hut, Sergei tried to gain Charlie’s attention while he was showering, but the fountain made quite a racket and Sergei was extremely reluctant to get closer because he did not like getting wet. (Riding the whale had been different – a matter of life and death.) He considered approaching Charlie while he was eating, but Charlie was deeply engrossed, and the table was exposed. Until he knew more about what was going on Sergei was reluctant to make himself visible. Ditto when Charlie was watching telly – Sergei made look-at-me faces outside until he had cheekache, but Charlie was staring at the screen, and nothing would shift his gaze.
‘You can see him goin’ square-eyed,’ muttered Sergei in disgust. He resolved to try after dark. The surveillance systems would be less effective. He wasn’t going to get spotted and carted off for god knows what by these weirdo humans, thank you very much.
Chapter Thirteen
Maccomo, having handed over his charges to their Sally-Anns, had been guided by his Assigned Guest Coordinator, a plump boy called Dave, to the HQ of the HQ. This was a comfortable chamber with low couches, marble floors, air conditioning and a wall of telly screens on which the occupants could watch anything that was going on, anywhere on the island.
He was welcomed by the Head Chief Executive. ‘Maccomo!’ he cried happily, as though they were old friends, though, in fact, they hadn’t ever met before. ‘Good to see ya, good to see ya. See ya’ve brought the full cargo along! All ticked off! Good to see those two little girls – quick fingers is an area we’ve been a little delayed in, to tell the truth, so new input there is good noos, the market is crying out for quick fingers, so we can get straight in to work on that. And the football team – well, wow! All a’ them! But, of course, the prize of the lot – Maccomo, you pulled it off! The Catspeaker! What can I say? You prarbly know we had a little trouble over in Yurp with the parents … But thanks to you that’s all over. They’ll be here lickety-split, I’ll bet, and we’ll have all the ingredients we need for a fine and profitable noo season a’research.’
Maccomo smiled quietly. How right he was about humanity, to expect nothing of them. How very low they all were. Money or sentimentality, that was what counted for human beings.
‘Ya’ve earned ya fee, sir, yes indeed,’ the Head Chief Executive continued, ‘and I truly hope that you’ll be working with us again in the near future, because frankly, we cain’t always find contractors a’ your calibre. We’ve had some failures in the field who have not been efficient in their collection agencies.’
‘I know,’ said Maccomo. He was uncomfortable here and wanted to move on. The air smelt funny. It turned his stomach, and for the first time in a while he thought of the Lionmedicine he used to take. ‘I know – I have brought him too. Rafi Sadler.’
‘Have ya now!’ cried the Head Chief Executive, who, of course, knew perfectly well that he had (Intelligence and Security had told him). ‘Ain’t that good noos! You’re bringin’ me nothin’ but good noos! He can join the programme along of all the other folks, and I dare say he’ll be far the better man for it.’
This kind of phrase meant nothing to Maccomo. Some optimistic Empire catchphrase. It bored him and he was ready to leave.
‘I will take the fee you would have paid him, in payment, plus my own fee,’ said Maccom
o. ‘Now I go.’
‘Where you off to so quick?’ enquired the Head Chief Executive. ‘Maybe you could stick around – we’ll be needing ya again, sure as eggs is eggs!’
Maccomo did not interest himself in eggs.
‘My ship is returning to Africa,’ he said civilly but coldly. ‘I have business to attend to. So …’
‘Course! Of course!’ said the HCE. ‘We’ll get your fee and all for ya by tomorrow. Spend a night or two, have some rest, and the Marine Resources Maintenance Unit can give your ship a look-over after your journey.’ With a cheerful thumbs-up sign, he ushered Maccomo out into the care of Dave, who led him to one of the guest houses. The HCE watched on one of his monitors. ‘He’ll be just fine,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Just fine.’
Rafi did not, however, join the programme along with the others. He was put instead in the workcamp, which was where the Corporacy kept those people they had kidnapped who turned out to be of no particular use to them. Rafi was given a dormitory bunk next to the World Champion Boiled Egg Eater, whose farts filled the rough-hewn dorm every night, and the former Mr Universe of Smoking, whose wheezing coughs and terrible snoring destroyed any remnant chance of sleep.
During the day they dug the fields and the vegetable patches. During the night they tossed and turned and coughed and farted.
I might as well’ve been drowned in that snikin’ ship, Rafi thought – his last thought before the Sweet Air got to him. ‘If Troy were here, I’d just sleep outside with him.’ But he was afraid to sleep outside on his own, with the hooting owls and the creaking insects and the mysterious scrabbling sounds of the Caribbean night, and Troy was not there – he was living happily in the home of a Spanish customs officer who had taken pity on him in the dog pound. Happily, that is, except that he missed Rafi.
On board El Baraka, Aneba and Magdalen did their very best not to be amazed by and terrified of Charlie’s friends. It wasn’t King Boris – he was just a king, they could handle that. But the Lions were something else. They lay calmly in the cabin, twitching their whiskers a little and – the young female in particular – seeming to smile. Charlie’s parents were astounded.
‘I think they understand a lot when we speak,’ said Claudio.
‘Hello,’ said Magdalen softly. She kind of wanted to hold her hand out, but it seemed crazy. Claudio had filled her in on how they came to be here. These wild cats had willingly, of their own accord, got on to a ship and crossed the Atlantic – stowed away! – for the sake of her son, her boy. She could hardly speak. There were tears in her eyes.
Elsina flicked her tail this way and that.
‘I wish I could speak to you like my son does,’ said Magdalen. ‘I wish I could tell you how amazed I am, how touched I am, that you are here. I wish …’ But she couldn’t.
‘Poor thing,’ murmured Elsina. ‘She looks a bit like Charlie, doesn’t she? She must be so worried.’
‘If they can understand,’ said Aneba, ‘they’d better be here for our discussions.’
‘Yeah, here’s my idea,’ said the Young Lion. ‘Let’s just go and scare some humans and get this over with.’ But, of course, no one understood – except Elsina, who rolled her eyes.
‘Well, then,’ said King Boris to Aneba and Magdalen. ‘Tell us what you know.’
They explained their theory about San Antonio and the Corporacy. King Boris, who had already been in touch with Edward, was able to confirm it.
‘And are we sure that Charlie is there?’ said King Boris.
‘No,’ said Aneba. ‘Which is why I am going to go and find out.’
‘How?’ they all asked – and Aneba explained his plan.
‘I must try to get a job on San Antonio,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’
He had not shaved for a long time. His hair was rough from the sea air, and long (for him) because it had been a month since they had been in Morocco, when he’d last seen a barber. He was wearing sun-faded trousers and a T-shirt like any T-shirt. ‘In the market,’ he said, ‘I could pass for a local. If I make my eyes dead. I’ll go there again tonight, and sniff around, and see what the local talk is about San Antonio.’
Everyone was silent. Nobody wanted him to have to go back there. Everyone knew it was a good idea, though.
‘Does he remind you of anyone?’ the Young Lion asked Elsina. ‘With his plans and his braveness?’
‘Yeah, Aneba’s just like Charlie,’ Elsina said affectionately.
‘Yes – but the big difference is, Charlie listens to us,’ said the Young Lion. ‘With these people it’s almost like being back in the Circus. Humans in charge, business as usual.’
The business of the Circus was not, however, going as usual. Tib’s Gallimaufry, on board the Circe, was crossing the Atlantic well to the north of the other ships. They were heading for New England, where the Show was booked in at towns down the coast for the rest of the summer. Major Tib, however, had received a message.
He was sitting, as so often, in his beautifully carved and panelled cabin, in his long robe, with his feet up on the table and a glass of brandy at his elbow.
‘Pirouette!’ he yelled.
It was a moment or two before the yell reached her (third-hand via Hans and Sigi Lucidi), and a moment or two more before she could get down from the rigging, where she had been practising balancing.
‘Darn promoter’s gone bust!’ Major Tib yelled when she finally arrived in his doorway. ‘Here’s me and the best darn Circus either side of any ocean halfway across the darn Atlantic and there’s no darn Empire tour! Whaddawe gonna do?’
Pirouette said nothing – she didn’t need to. He just wanted an audience. That was why she was there. He was a Ringmaster, after all.
‘Well, no darn New England tour … heck! Let’s go south instead. Carolina’s nice … Florida? Where’s our best contacts, Pirouette?’
She smiled and leaned against a door jamb.
‘I’ll get on to Milam Dowdy. He’ll know what’s doing. Dangblammit, what an embarrassment! Or should we head back to Europe?’
She shrugged.
Major Tib got on the phone. ‘Dangblammit,’ he was mumbling still. But within an hour he had an offer of a tour up the Mississippi, starting from New Orleans.
‘New Orleans!’ he cried. ‘How’s about that, Pirouette? Let’s turn the ship south and catch a load more fish for them tigers. We’re going to New Orleans – gonna see the voodoo king.’ He broke into song. Major Tib loved New Orleans. The heat and the gumbo, the ghost stories and the Cajun music. ‘I’ll treat you all at Tipitina’s!’ he yelled. ‘Brush up ya dancing shoes!’ Pirouette shook her head, and went to tell the captain that Major Tib wanted to see him.
That evening Aneba went ashore again, and after a night over which we will draw a veil (spent mainly in muddy floored shacks that served as low drinking dives), he came back in the radiant toxic-pink Caribbean dawn tired and depressed but with useful information.
‘Nobody goes there,’ he said. ‘Nobody can get ashore. The people here hate San Antonio. It has everything they haven’t: law and order, money, comfort. But at the same time, they say, it’s a sick place, a place without soul. They say people’s eyes are dead who live there, that their smiles are painted on. One said, “At least we know we live in hell.” And anyway – yes – all the staff are hired by the international personnel department, all references are checked, there are no vacancies and even if there were, they would not hire locally.’
‘Oh,’ said Magdalen.
‘There is only one possibility,’ continued Aneba.
Magdalen looked at him expectantly.
‘There is a woman who comes to market – to the spices and potions market. No one could tell me what she buys there. Her name is Auntie Auntie. They say she’s powerful on San Antonio, and that she is African. They assume she is a witch, coming for ingredients. She comes most weeks. She is expected the day after tomorrow.’
‘So, will you seduce her? Make her fall in love with you? Or k
idnap her? Save her life?’
‘Save her life, I think. Africans care about things like that. Even powerful ones working for the Corporacy.’
So …’
‘So I think you will have to try to kill her – unless I can get someone else to. Simplest to keep it in the family.’
Magdalen sighed. ‘It’s risky,’ she said. ‘She may have security.’
‘You’ll have to hire a car, I suppose, and knock her down. I could show up her guards – beat them at something.’
‘Be serious,’ said Magdalen.
‘I am being,’ Aneba said. ‘Unless we can think of something better. Let’s sleep on it.’
‘I’ve been asleep all night,’ Magdalen said.
‘I haven’t,’ Aneba replied, rolling into his bunk. ‘You go and tell the others.’
Magdalen smiled. At least there were others. It was nice to have others to tell.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie woke in the morning full of fear.
Was he himself? He did a quick scan of his mind – pictured his mother’s face, counted to twenty in Arabic and Italian, remembered his bedroom at home, the tune Claudio sang on his gondola, the embroidery on Major Tib’s best Ringmaster tailcoat. All present and correct.
He kicked back the clean white sheet that covered him and did some back bends and a handstand. He ran through his problems – lost parents, prisoner of Corporacy, potential brainwashing by drugged air, Sergei unaccounted for, Maccomo lurking, Rafi …
This would be enough to make anyone miserable, but Charlie smiled.
He remembered it all! He knew what was going on, he knew where he was, he knew why. His mind was still his!
How come?
And would it last?
He smiled again. Never mind – he had what he had, and he would use it while he could. If his mind went later on, too bad, it was all over. He’d worry about that when it happened. For now, he’d survived a night in this air and he felt like a bright boy who’d slept comfortably and eaten well and had a lot to do.
