Dream London

by Tony Ballantyne

  “Will you be able to fall asleep in time?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Cynthia. “I travel around by train all the time. We all do. We’ve developed the skill.”

  “Who travels by train? How have you developed the skill?”

  But the train had stopped, and with a wave of her hand, Cynthia stepped onto the platform. I thought about following her, but decided against it. She obviously didn’t think that much of me, certainly not enough to lose any sleep over. Not if it stopped her going where she was going.

  I waited as the train pulled out of the station. The streets of Chinatown were neat and rounded and regular. The lights were on in every house.

  I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to escape Dream London this way, that much was obvious. I would have more luck trying to walk out, or maybe sailing in a boat down the Thames. I’d seen the satellite pictures: the river still connected to the Channel. And Bill had said that France hadn’t been touched by the changes.

  As I thought this the train plunged into a tunnel and began to twist around, the curve it followed pushing me over in my seat. I felt a tremor of uneasiness. Where were we going now? Dream London was a dangerous place. Where would I end up? I imagined the train plunging down to Pandemonium itself.

  But then the train straightened out and with a sudden whoosh it emerged back into the night. I looked at the scenery outside with a mixture of relief and resignation.

  Large towers rose up all around me. The streets were lined with men in dark suits and hats. They leant against the walls of the tall buildings, still in shock at the loss of their jobs.

  The train was slowing down now, ready to deposit me at Angel Tower station. I stood up.

  I was tired, I was hungry, I was thirsty. Worse than that, though, I felt utterly despondent.

  Dream London had defeated me again.

  ELEVEN

  THE CONTRACT FLOOR

  THE TRAIN DEPOSITED me on the platform of Angel Tower Station, then glided off down a tunnel, heading back to its usual haunts at the edge of reality.

  I stood for a moment, dizzy with thirst and lack of sleep. The night had passed too quickly and now a pale dawn illuminated the glass roof of the station. Across on another platform a musician straightened up and adjusted the straps of his accordion. He looked in my direction and played a couple of notes, and then just stood, waiting. Another train slid into the station and the first businessmen alighted, dressed in their suits. Not just businessmen. There were other people too, some with brown and cream scarves tied to their wrists, others with burgundy and silver scarves around their necks. Football fans.

  The accordion began to play, and the day began.

  I walked into the street and was brought to a halt by the sheer presence of Angel Tower. The building was oppressive, the height of the place, the way it seemed to thrust its way down from out of the deep sky, rather than growing upwards like a normal building. I looked up along its length. Somewhere up there, someone was waiting for me. Someone sat at a desk looking at a list of the criminals of Dream London. Somewhere on that list was my name.

  I could smell coffee in the air. I saw a stand selling drinks and hot morning rolls. My tongue flexed in my mouth, wanting something to drink, something to bring it to life.

  I looked at Angel Tower.

  I began to walk purposefully towards it.

  THE BUILDING WAS nearly empty. A security man in a purple tunic sat at a desk, watching the line of women who spanned the width of the hall, all on their knees, all scrubbing the floor in unison. The sight of them in their blue checked pinafores brought me up short. This was the other thing women in Dream London did, I realised. On their knees as whores or cleaners. I had chosen to control the whores.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The security guard was looking at me now. I drew myself up to my full height, straightened out the green material of my military jacket, the better to display the golden frogging.

  “Captain James Wedderburn,” I said. “I’m expected on the Contract Floor.”

  “Go right up, sir.”

  It was that easy.

  I crossed the floor, tip-toeing between two women scrubbing at the floor with stiff bristle brushes. The scent of carbolic filled my nose. I left a trail of footprints on the damp marble as I crossed to the lifts.

  A set of doors slid open as I approached. I stepped inside and turned to look back at the hall. Ten pairs of buttocks faced me, swaying back and forth as the women scrubbed on. The doors slid shut and I began my ascent.

  The lift accelerated, and I braced my knees against the force. Higher and higher...

  THE CONTRACT FLOOR was filled with the stillness of a thousand unvisited museums. You felt it as you stepped through the lift doors. The Contract Floor was the absolute reference, it was the harbour for grudges, the bottle for feelings, the pivot of the world.

  The Contract Floor was wide and deep. There were no internal walls up here, no light but for that which shone through the distant windows, far away across the empty floor. I saw the pale glow of morning falling on the glass cabinets and cases that filled the room, arranged in regular fashion around the vast space. There were glass-topped tables; wide, thin chests of drawers of the sort used to hold maps; old wooden filing cabinets, many-drawered pharmacy cabinets in dark mahogany...

  It looked like a museum, but a museum for children. The cabinets and cases of the Contract Floor were all so low you would bark your shins on them. I leaned forward to examine the parchment laid out in the one closest to me. Pictures of butterflies drawn in cobalt blue and gold had been inked in lines. Each one had a label beneath: Property of Mr James Geranium; The official butterfly of Florizel Street Station; Property of the rose bushes of the lower East Side.

  “Why would rose bushes wish to own a butterfly?” I wondered aloud.

  “I think it’s more about what Dream London wishes,” said a familiar voice.

  I turned to see my blonde secretary from the Writing Floor standing behind me, hair pinned up, a clipboard in her hand.

  “Captain Wedderburn. So you made it here at last.”

  “Miss Merchant.”

  “I knew you’d get here eventually,” she said.

  “Where did you sneak up from?” I asked. “Were you hiding?”

  “Not at all, Captain Wedderburn. It’s the stillness up here. Things have a way of being lost amongst it.”

  “Do you work on the Contract Floor now?” I asked.

  “No one works on the Contract Floor,” she said. “There’s nothing to do here. Everything on the Contract Floor is constant and unchanging.”

  “Oh.”

  “They second people up here from the Writing Floor when a new Contract needs to be written. That’s why we’re both here, of course.”

  “Why we’re here?”

  “To sign your contract with Angel Tower!”

  “To sign my contract? But I already work for Angel Tower!”

  “No you don’t. You were allowed onto the Numbers Floor and the Writing Floor as a guest. You don’t work for Angel Tower until you sign a contract.”

  “But...”

  “Come on, James. You should feel honoured. So many people are taking an interest in you. You’re a true hero for Dream London. Did you know that?”

  “A hero? I don’t think so.”

  “It’s true. Come on. Let’s go to the desk.” She placed a hand on my arm. “Be careful as you walk. The level of permanence in here gets thicker as you get closer to the floor.

  She steered me along an aisle between two wide desks. Leather bound illuminated manuscripts lay open upon them, books wider than you could spread your arms. One showed a picture of three silver men dancing around a large letter P. I read the first sentence. Penrose: Look to the Moon!

  “It feels like I’m wading through water,” I said. “Like my feet are caught in mud.”

  “Take care there,” said Miss Merchant, steering me around a silver line pulled like a tripwire before
me.

  “That’s a spiderweb,” I said.

  “The cleaners have the devil of a job in this place. Once the dust settles it’s there for ever.”

  Every footstep that had ever sounded in the Contract Floor hung in the air. Dip your head down into it and you could hear never ending chords formed of taps and clicks.

  “There’s no happiness here,” I said. “Happiness evaporates, it bubbles away. But misery accretes.”

  She led me further into the room. The morning light moved slower in this room, it seeped into the place like lemon curd. It settled on the little wooden desk, one like you might see in an old fashioned classroom. A sheet of parchment lay upon it, a long feathered quill stood upright in an inkwell beside it. A grandfather clock stood by the table; too tall for itself, it had to bend down to fit in the room. It didn’t tick, it creaked, each note stretched out until it snapped off at its root.

  “That clock is three hours slow,” I said.

  “This room is twenty-eight days slow,” said Miss Merchant. “Time passes by slower and slower, the closer you approach the centre.”

  I looked in the direction that she was pointing, and I saw the stillness that filled the centre of the Contract Floor. I can’t describe what it looked like. It looked like ... stillness

  “What’s in there?” I asked, softly.

  “Nothing,” breathed Miss Merchant. “You can’t pass through the stillness. The closer you get to it, the less you move.”

  “How can you fight stillness?” I said, half to myself.

  “You can’t. What you need to do is strike a magnificent pose as the time runs out.”

  “What makes the stillness?”

  “The ants. They spin the motion out of stuff, it’s where their power comes from.”

  “Stuff? What stuff?”

  “The stuff that stuff is made from. Once the ants have taken all the motion from it, all there is left is stillness. They use the stillness as the root of their nest. Where you have stillness you have a point of reference. Where you have a point of reference you have an absolute. Where you have an absolute you have certainty. Where you have certainty you have right and wrong. The ants anchor the world and they make it run according to their rules, the rules of the nest.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “What ants? What nest?”

  “What nest?” smiled Miss Merchant. “You’re in it now. Angel Tower. As for the ants, you mean you didn’t know? It’s the ants that are responsible for all this.”

  “The ants?”

  “Sign the contract, James. You’ll get to see everything then.”

  I stared at the stillness. I stared at the desk, looked at the parchment laid out upon it. Looked at the quill that stood at its side.

  “What am I signing?” I asked.

  “Whatever you like,” said Miss Merchant. “Angel Tower thinks highly of you, James. You get to write your own contract.”

  I moved across to the desk.

  “Where are the other contracts?” I asked.

  “You know where they are, James,” said Miss Merchant, waving a hand to indicate the cabinets and cases that surrounded us. “All around you. Sign the contract and your relationship with Angel Tower will become permanent. Your contract will join the other contracts here.”

  I looked around the room. What if a nuclear bomb was to hit this place? What if all the contracts were to burn away? Would that be enough to free London from all of this?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Miss Merchant.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You’re wondering about stealing the contracts from the drawers. I wouldn’t bother. Do you think that Angel Tower would make it so easy for someone? The ants spent a lot of time opening up this world. They wouldn’t relinquish their hold so easily.”

  “Hmmm.” I looked around the room once more. There was no one there, only me and Miss Merchant. The sense of stillness was unnerving. I felt as if we were being listened to.

  I looked at the contract, at the official-looking piece of paper that lay before me.

  “What am I signing up to?” I asked.

  “To be part of Angel Tower. You will become part of the nest. Don’t worry about it, it’s perfectly safe. I signed up.”

  “Good for you. What’s in it for me?”

  “Whatever you like. I told you, you get to write your own contract.”

  I looked at the desk and the sheet of parchment, and I shivered.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have the choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.” I stared into her eyes for a moment, then reached out and touched the edge of her cheek.

  “Don’t even think of it, Captain Wedderburn,” said Miss Merchant. “We’re not on the Writing Floor now. And don’t be fooled by my looks. This isn’t how I used to be. I got this face and this body when I signed my contract. I know all about your sort, Captain Wedderburn.”

  “And what sort is that?”

  “Face of a fallen angel and no soul. In the past you wouldn’t have spared me a glance. Now, sit down and write your contract.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t care. Sit down.”

  I sat down and gazed at the sheet of parchment.

  “There’s nothing written here,” I said.

  “I keep telling you. You get to write your own contract.”

  “What shall I put?”

  “Start with your name.”

  I picked up the quill and touched it to the paper.

  “What will this mean?”

  “That you’ll be working for Angel Tower.”

  “I have this thing in my mouth.”

  “It will have no power over you when you work for us.”

  I looked at Miss Merchant. She certainly was attractive. If Angel Tower could do that for her, what could it do for me?

  I wrote:

  I, Captain James Wedderburn...

  Text appeared underneath what I had written.

  ... hereby indenture myself to Angel Tower for the term of seven hundred years or the rest of my life, whichever is the shorter.

  “What’s in it for me?” I asked. The words appeared immediately before me:

  In consideration of the services to be performed by Captain James Wedderburn, Angel Tower will make the following concessions.

  Angel Tower will grant Captain James Wedderburn the leasehold to Belltower End and associated properties for a term of seven hundred years or the rest of his life, whichever is the shorter.

  “The leasehold?” I said. “The Cartel offered me the freehold!”

  “It wasn’t theirs to give,” said Miss Merchant. “No land in Dream London is owned by humans any more.”

  “Hmm.”

  I turned back to the contract.

  Angel Tower will grant Captain James Wedderburn exemption from the laws of Dream London applicable to the general public, the semi-skilled tradesmen, tradesmen, the middle classes and the minor aristocracy. In addition, Captain James Wedderburn shall be given license to carry out four (4) murders and six (6) acts of usury per year. Furthermore, he will be granted the license to engage in unlimited sexual activity upon anyone of any class up to and including Dream London Royalty. (Captain James Wedderburn will of course be allowed to carry out any crime upon any person in order to further the aims of Angel Tower.)

  Captain James Wedderburn shall have the right to wear the following colours and coats of arms: Purple, silver, purple and silver, Light gold, confectioner’s gold and old gold; the mark of the dog, the mark of the goat and the lizards reversed.

  In addition to his regular remuneration (stated elsewhere), Captain James Wedderburn shall receive a yearly tribute of three parmesan cheeses, four black forest gateaux, a yard of ale, two furlongs of whisky and a light year of olive oil.

  “They’re taking the piss now,” I said.

  “Shhhh,” said Miss Merchant. “Keep on reading. I did these for you. They’re wel
l worth it.”

  Captain James Wedderburn shall furthermore be exempt from the laws of grammar. In particular, he shall be allowed to split infinitives, to say ‘less’ rather than ‘fewer’ and to begin sentences with ‘but’ and ‘and’. Any persons found correcting his manner of speech shall be imprisoned in a penguin suit in Dream London Zoo.

  Finally, Captain James Wedderburn shall be transported in a coach and four at his request.

  “Is this some sort of joke?” I said.

  “These things are very important in the other worlds,” said Miss Merchant.

  I looked at the contract again.

  “So what are my duties?” I asked.

  “These are very straightforward,” replied Miss Merchant.

  They appeared on the parchment as she spoke.

  Captain James Wedderburn shall, in return for these considerations, do whatsoever Angel Tower deems reasonable.

  “So, not what is reasonable?” I pointed out.

  “I wouldn’t get too upset about that,” said Miss Merchant. “It’s a standard clause on human contracts.”

  I looked down at the parchment once more.

  “Is that it?” I said. “Do I just sign this?”

  “Not quite,” said Miss Merchant. “There’s the final part. Who are you?”

  I stared at her. Shadows flickered outside. Birds flying by the window.

  “Who am I?” I said. “I’m Captain James Wedderburn!”

  “Well, yes, but that’s just a label. A handle. It’s not even true. You’re not really a Captain, are you? You never made more than Sergeant in the army.”

  “I acted as Captain. I’ve done nothing but since I came to Dream London.”

  “Precisely,” said Miss Merchant. “And isn’t that the nice thing about Dream London? You can be who you want to be! Look at me. Plain Jane until Dream London arrived, and look at me now!”

  I was looking at her, at all her glorious curves. She was leaning closer to me, her perfumed bosom almost in my face.

  “So who do you want to be, Captain Wedderburn? Because that’s the wonderful thing about Angel Tower. It tells the common folk who they are. It labels people and categorises them, makes them wear turbans and dress up like Mollies so that they are less like real people and more like cartoon characters.”