Dream London (2 page)

T
HERE USED TO
be an underground station opposite my building. Over the past year it had metamorphosed twice: first into a railway station, and then into an inn. I remember the landlord holding court with his customers, telling us about the staircase leading down from his cellar into the tunnels through which trains had once travelled. The tunnels had shrunk, he said, tightened like sphincters. What remained of those narrowed, fat-filled arteries was choked with black and green beetles, walking back and forth in long lines beneath the city, preyed on by silver snakes and cock rats.

“What about the railway lines?” I had asked. “Are they still there?”

That had been a quiet night; the few customers of the Recursive Lionhad pressed up to the bar, glasses of gin and porter in hand. One of the other customers, a thin man with a huge red handlebar moustache, had laughed at my question.

“Haven’t you heard?” he said, his moustache dipped in white foam. “The railway lines have surfaced three streets south of here. They’re sliding sideways, heading towards the river. All the tracks in the city are moving!”

That must have been some time ago, I thought. Back when the changes were first taking effect and I was freshly returned from Afghanistan, a relative unknown. No one in that inn would laugh in the face of Captain Jim Wedderburn today.

Standing in the sallow street, gazing at repeated figures on the sign of the Recursive Lion opposite, I felt the nausea receding in the cold night air. I still had no idea of the time. The life of the inn gave no clue.

What is it that gives a building the feeling of life? There were people in there, I could tell, but that meant nothing. In the morning the place is packed with porters from the flower markets and the beery air is heavy with the scent of pollen. In the evenings the clerks and accountants line the tables in neat black velvet rows. The owners of the workhouse round the corner follow them in at about nine o’clock, propping up the bar as they raise a glass to other people’s industry. After midnight the ladies and gentlemen appear, slumming it after the opera or the ballet. Later come the stevedores and the butchers, hooks and cleavers tucked in their jackets, ready for trouble. And at any time there could be matelots, making the most of their time on land and looking for the sort of produce that Captain Wedderburn supplies.

There was a clock in the bar that hadn’t stopped working, despite the changes. A big white face with black Roman numerals and the name of its maker written on the front in curly script. I could stick my head around the door and see the time. I began to make my way forwards when a triangle of light swept into being across the road.

The door to the inn opened and Christine stepped out into the street. She saw me right away and gave me a tight little smile.

“Hello, Jim,” she said.

“Not you, too, Christine,” I said, tiredly. “Please, call me James.”

We looked each other up and down, checking out how the other looked. She won that battle. Her tailored suit was well made, her dark silk stocking tops visible just beneath her too-short skirt. Her make-up was immaculate: bright red lips and highlighted eyes stood out against her smooth, almost imperceptible foundation. And there I stood in my frayed grey trousers, my leaking black brogues and my gaudy military jacket.

“Found a husband yet?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she said brusquely. “But I keep working my way through the list. Still giving candy away?”

“Do you want some?” I asked. “I have some in my pocket.”

I meant the offer kindly, but she gave me a withering stare.

At that point my stomach rumbled, and I realised that I didn’t want her to see me like this.

“Do you know what to do about salamanders?” I asked. “There are two on my bed.”

“Speak to Fran,” she said. “She’s got a shop down on Holcomb Street. She’s good with pests and vermin.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out a velvet purse.

“Here, I got you something,” she said. “I was going to leave it with Second Eddie, but as you’re here...”

“I don’t need any money,” I said.

“I wasn’t offering you any.”

She looked so smart and confident, dressed like that with her little piece of parchment in her pocket, ticking her way through the items on the list of men she had purchased, searching for her ideal husband.

She had bought the thing as a joke, back when the little shops were just beginning to appear here and there around the old city. Back when James Wedderburn was trying to live an honest life and had decided that he needed the love of a good woman to save him. Christine had been that woman, an old flame that had reignited.

Back then it was almost a joke to push your way from the summer streets into the dark, poky interior of one of the quirky little shops that seemed to grow in the glass and concrete façades of the city. I remember the little woman sitting in the armchair by the counter, how overdressed she had seemed, with her petticoats, her grubby skirt, her knitted gloves. The effect was exaggerated when viewed next to Christine in her shorts and crop top, her sliver flip-flops; all tanned flesh and confidence. Christine had handed across the money, all in coins, and the woman had given her a sheet of yellow parchment. We pushed our way back into the sunshine and Christine unrolled her purchase.

I remember the look on her face when she realised that my name wasn’t on her list. I was expecting shock, disappointment, annoyance. Instead, she just smiled, rolled up the parchment and slipped it into her shoulder bag. She’d looked at it over the next few weeks, always when she thought I wasn’t watching. I didn’t realise she was taking it seriously, but, little by little, she had been changing even then. We all were: we just didn’t realise it.

Now, one year later, and look at us all.

“What happened to you, Christine?” I said, softly. “You were training to be an actuary. What are you now?” I didn’t say what I thought:
more honest than a gold digger, less honest than a whore.

She paused, one hand in her purse, and looked down at herself, her smart suit, her silk stockings.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, and then she shook her head. “But what about you? What’s happening to you, Jim?”

“I told you, it’s James.”

She shook her head. “James, Jim, whatever. I heard what you were doing now. It isn’t... nice.”

Christine always knew how to push my buttons. If her aim was to lock me up in sullen silence, then she succeeded.

“See?” she said quietly. “Who are you to tell me how to behave?”

“Things have been hard since I left the army,” I said. “I have to earn a living somehow.”

“You could be better than that, James.” She spoke the words softly, and for a moment there was some of the old affection in her gaze.

“I used to feel as if I was, when we were together,” I murmured.

We both stood in silence for a moment.

Then she remembered her purse. She pulled out my gift. A tiny roll of parchment.

“Here,” she said. “This is for you. Don’t dismiss it out of hand. It cost me a lot of money.”

“What is it?”

“Your fortune.”

Something about this gesture hit me like a blow to the stomach.

“Christine,” I said, sadly. “Why did you waste your money on this? You know I don’t believe in that nonsense.”

“Just take it,” she said. She couldn’t meet my gaze.

“Is your name on it?” I asked.

“No,” she said, looking at the ground.

I took the fortune and unrolled it just enough to read the first line.

You will meet a Stranger...

Just as I suspected. People were still preying on Christine’s gullibility.

“It’s so vague, Christine. Of course I’ll meet strangers. This is a city.”

“This Stranger will be special.”

“Can’t you see, Christine? This is all made up. You’ve been going downhill ever since you bought that stupid parchment. Why did you bother? We had everything we needed.”

She looked at me with real pity then.

“James,” she said, sadly. “Don’t
you
see? I didn’t buy the parchment to confirm that you were going to be my husband. I bought it to confirm that you weren’t.”

“Oh.”

I couldn’t meet her eye. I felt sick and lost and detached from everything. She folded her hands over the parchment in my own.

“Promise me you’ll read it, Jim. It will help you. I still worry about you.”

“The parchment is just stories. It doesn’t mean anything!”

She fixed me with a gaze. Memory imposed the blue of her eyes over the dim light.

“Please, James. Promise me you’ll read it.”

“I promise,” I said. Not that a promise from Jim Wedderburn means anything.

She gave me a brittle little smile.

“I have to be off,” she said. “I’ll see you around.”

I watched her walk off up the street, leaving me alone and lost in the middle of the city, uncertain even of the time of night and, now that the poison was sweating from my system, with an empty stomach that was telling me just how hungry it was.

It growled at a changing world, one which was moulding me into someone I didn’t want to be.

I took another look at the top line of the parchment.

You will meet a Stranger.

I shook my head sadly at the words, and pushed the parchment into my pocket.

Just then the door of the inn opened once more, and the stranger who was to change my life stepped out into the night.

The man was unmistakably a Molly. Framed by the light of the door I could see his dark red velvet suit, the striped golden shirt and tie. His red top hat was tilted at a rakish angle, but it was the foundation, the hint of eyeliner and lipstick that confirmed it. He was a good looking man, in an effeminate sort of way. And he was gazing right at me.

“Captain Jim Wedderburn, I believe!” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake.

“It’s James Wedderburn,” I replied, but I took his hand anyway. It was warm and smooth.

“Jim, James, what’s a name to a Jolly Japer like you, eh? Jim, I’d like to invite you to dinner. What do you say? A little convivial company and conversation over comestibles?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was thinking of heading for bed.”

My stomach rumbled, making its own views known.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “In fact I
know
that you weren’t. I’ve been watching you, my Jolly Jim. Seven nights now, I’ve come to this pub, sat in the seat by the door through the lost hours, looking through the glass, just waiting to see if you would step into the night. Six whores have come and gone from your room, but no sign of the gallant captain in the night hours. Then finally, this very evening, I saw Luke Pennies enter your building, half hidden by a glamour, and I knew that this night would be make or break. I had a bet with myself that you would survive his dreadful attempts upon your person, and look if I wasn’t right!”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your help,” he said.

“Help with what?”

The Molly waved a hand around the elongated buildings of Dream London, stretched out thin and sharp against the deep purple sky, the moon an over-large crescent that threatened to impale the city itself on its horns.

“Look at this place,” he said. “I want you to help me to find out what happened to us.”

RED

ALPHONSE/ALAN

“C
OME ALONG,
J
OLLY
Jim!”

The stranger folded my hand in his arm and walked me down the street, strolling in and out of the pools of light cast by the gas lamps. Everything about him craved attention – his flamboyant dress: the velvet top hat and gloves; the eyeliner and mascara; the richness of his voice. He spoke like a port-soaked old actor, filling the cool night air with warmth and bonhomie.

“We make such a lovely couple, don’t we?” he announced, squeezing my hand. “A pretty pair of pals in this pale pedestrian precinct!” He leant closer to me, and I smelt the lavender that soaked his scarf. “Or we would,” he whispered in lower tones. “You’re not that way inclined, are you? Such a shame.” He laughed brightly. “Have I embarrassed you?”

“No,” I said, and it was true. Captain Jim Wedderburn asked for nothing more than strong drink, a hearty meal and adventure, with maybe a little whoring thrown in on the side. His biggest concern would be whether he was heading for a late supper, or an early breakfast, and didn’t care who his companions were so long as they were entertaining.

James Wedderburn, however, was more cautious...

“What’s your name?” I asked.

The Molly gasped.

“Jim, you know the rules! No names.” He sighed. “But that’s not fair, is it? I know your name, after all. Well, call me Alphonse!”

“Alphonse,” I said. “Like that’s a real name.”

“It’s a pretty name though, don’t you think?”

He smiled at me and batted his eyelashes, then giggled. I had to smile.

“And where are you taking me, Alphonse?” I asked.

“A private little place I know. A delightful little den where the drink is divine, the food to die for and the company utterly decadent.”