Lost on Mars (30 page)

His expression told me he was prepared for the worst. Then he said, ‘What your brother told you about the wooden toys and the playset in the store – it really freaked you out, didn't it?'

I nodded. ‘And I'm not even sure why. It's how we must seem to them, I suppose. Just playthings. Distant, made-up, fantastical creatures.'

He kissed me on the cheek and went off to sleep on the sofa.

Back in my room I lay on my bed and found I was too tired to sleep. My thoughts were so disordered I couldn't clamber back inside my Victorian novel. What I did though, was reach into my bedside cabinet and take out that single piece of paper again, and read the address to myself.

536 / Appt D

Bolingbroke District

900044 NNVX

These few lines kept creeping into my head like the stanza of a poem that had a meaning I couldn't get. They were important somehow, the way they kept suggesting themselves. I slipped the piece of paper, without really thinking about it, into my purse.

The next day was long, frosty and frustrating.

We went back to the Ruskin District and the quad where the students had been agitating the night before. In the icy morning we found everything empty and still. We managed to get ourselves back into the Department of True Life Stories because I guess, to the guards and such, we just looked like any other students. There was nothing particular about our furtive shabbiness to mark us out. When we hurried by her desk, I was aware of the penetrating gaze of the pink-haired receptionist. She didn't stop us, though.

Peter led the way to Dean Swiftnick's office. His memory of the building's layout was good. The corridors were congested with students on the move, and once we'd fought our way through, we found a sign saying he was out on business for the day, and his office hours were cancelled till further notice.

Peter swore and thumped the door. For the first time I actually found myself thinking – are we really going to get his Karl back? And Toaster? Are they both completely lost to us?

I decided that if the Professor wanted my memories that badly, he could have them. He could use his horrible brain drain machine on me again, but only if he returned Karl and Toaster to us.

I knew Peter was hideously disappointed. I knew he had imagined some miraculous reunion with a barking, happy, waggy, trembling Karl, and it hadn't happened. I made up my mind to tell him I would bargain with Swiftnick as soon as we saw him again. And then we ran into someone I recognised at once.

It was Tillian's Da, the nattily dressed Mr Tollund Graveley. He stood out a mile amongst the scruffy students in his immaculate charcoal-grey suit. For a beat he looked astonished to see me, but it took only a moment for him to smooth his reaction over and turn back into his calm, collected self. ‘Lora Robinson, my dearest girl. How absolutely extraordinary to come across you in this place.'

I asked him suspiciously, ‘Why are you here?'

He flushed at my poor manners. ‘My newspaper,
The City Insider,
often liaises with academics from this faculty, using them in a consultative role…'

‘Dean Swiftnick,' I said suddenly. ‘You're in league with Dean Swiftnick.'

A whole gaggle of noisy students surged past and Peter was drawn away from us. Old man Graveley and I found ourselves pressed against a noticeboard.

I gasped. ‘That's how Swiftnick knew I had heard about the antique hunters. You told me that awful story…' My head was spinning with conspiracies.

The old man was flummoxed, beetling his bushy brows at me. ‘I am afraid I have no idea what you mean…'

‘Never mind all that,' I snapped. I needed to get Al away from the Graveley family and away from his beloved Tillian. If her father and the Dean were in cahoots then I didn't want my brother anywhere near any of them. But how would he react to that?

Peter was pushing his way through the crowd towards us, like a swimmer against high tide. Mr Graveley leaned over me. ‘Actually, Lora my dear, there is indeed something I need to tell you. I think I must take advantage of this extraordinary coincidence of our bumping into one another…'

His breath reeked of some kind of spoiled meat – a mess of horrible offal. I drew back. ‘What do you want?'

‘Well, it seems that my foolish daughter has done something rather unfortunate.'

I went cold. Was he going to say something was wrong with Al? Something had happened to him? And yet I'd seen him that morning at breakfast. He was happy and fine.

‘It seems that, in a quite extraordinary act of indiscretion, my silly daughter has given your brother a particular bundle of papers. Now, these are very important and secret documents printed by the Archive Machine at
The City Insider
…'

I saw what he was after and knew that I had to play dumb. ‘Really? I don't think so.'

He bent even closer, with his breath blasting hot on my face. ‘You know what I mean. My daughter gave your brother a fancy box, tied up in ribbons, the night the two of you were entertained at our apartment. You are now in possession of that box, and the bundle of papers it contained.'

‘Oh, that.' I saw I couldn't deny it any further. ‘It was nothing. Just empty pages.'

‘I hardly think so. It is the property and copyright of the City University. And I will have it back, my dear.'

I didn't say anything. Just kept staring at him defiantly.

‘Extraordinary willfulness,' he whispered. It was as if we two were the only people in the whole building. He carried a feeling of deathly hush with him. ‘You really have the most fiercely stubborn personality I have ever encountered. I thought as much when I first met you. I suppose your intransigence is how you managed to escape alive from the ghastly, benighted place that produced you.'

I wanted to punch him.

‘We want those papers, Lora. But we will be reasonable. Have the bundle back in its chocolate box, all tied up in ribbons, and I will call on you tonight with Tillian, when she comes to pay her visit to Al. It will be a lovely social call and you will offer me refreshment and hand me back my property.'

Still I didn't say anything. I realised that Peter was standing very close by, observing everything. Mr Graveley's manners were impeccable. He bade us both goodbye, turned smartly on his heel and was gone.

‘Who was that creep?' asked Peter. ‘What was he saying to you?'

I shook my head. ‘I'll explain as we go. I need your help, Peter. You said you could help me find my way across the City…'

‘Yes, anywhere.'

‘There's somewhere in particular I need to be. This afternoon.'

‘The traffic will be busy. It's Christmas Eve.'

That brought me up short. Of course it was. Christmas had snuck up on me. I'd been so concerned with everything else – these mysteries and Disappearances and all – I had nothing ready. No food, no decorations, not even a present for my brother.

I came from a place where everything was so ordered and the seasons' rituals always followed a laid-out pattern of anticipation and preparation. Here in the City things were much more chaotic. Time moved in jerks and jumps and you had to keep up, otherwise you'd be left out.

On the Pipeline train Peter examined the small piece of paper I had tucked into my purse.

‘But what will we find at this address, Lora?' he asked. ‘What are you hoping will happen?'

I truly didn't know. But if Mr Graveley didn't want me to have this information then I knew it was something –
somewhere
– important. And I intended to find out why.

I sat fretting in the wooden train carriage in the underground tunnel, watching the greenish steam flooding by, hardly aware of my fellow passengers. I felt bad for Peter. I'd let his pursuit of Karl slip by the wayside, caught up in my own search.

We climbed out of our train at last and up innumerable stone staircases and one of those escalators I still couldn't get used to. The tiled station echoed pleasantly with the voices of a choir singing Earth songs I didn't recognise. Snow was blowing down from street level and I thought: Why can't I just enjoy the holiday like everyone else? Why can't I forget my concerns and simply have a nice time?

I could buy a gift for Al. I could forget all the mysterious stuff and just go buy him a present. And what if I bought that prairie playset and all its wooden figures? He could set them out and imagine the world we used to live in. Then, suddenly, that seemed a ridiculous thought and, besides, how much did it cost and how little money did I have? Did I really think the Authorities would keep giving me cash, after I'd run out of Swiftnick's Remembering Room?

What if they took the apartment off me? I was following Peter up the slushy red steps to the busy street above. It hit me that I could be homeless in the New Year, living rough on the cold streets of the City Inside. I'd not even thought of that when I'd escaped from the Dean's memory machine.

We did battle with the oncoming crowds, or were drawn along on their tides through broad thoroughfares where we could barely see the colourful window displays. There was a barrage of exotic smells from street food – sickly sweets, spitting hot fat, Christmas fruit and spices. I even felt a tinge of festive nostalgia at some of those scents as we bustled by.

Peter paused to consult a City map and looked again, frowning, at the piece of card with the address on.

‘It's so good of you to help me when you're worried about Karl.'

‘We're in this together. We're a team, aren't we?'

I felt he was right and it was our togetherness that was keeping us both calm. With all the festivities ringing brashly about us, I was glad of Peter's dependability. He felt real. I knew he always saw things as they actually were. He knew his way around this strange City and he made me feel safe. We were a team because neither of us fitted in and we both knew it.

He led us away from the main boulevard and all its brightness into a series of twisting back streets, deeper and deeper into the City. We passed more modest, then more down-at-heel stores and dwellings. Metal staircases zigzagged up tenement blocks way above our heads and I realised that thousands of people must live up there behind those humble-looking windows. Most were shuttered against the cold and dark.

We hurried up the steel rungs of fire escapes, careful of the frost and slimy ice. We went up two, three, four storeys. It was all a far cry from the smooth, mirrored bronze of the elevators in the tower where I lived.

Candles flickered and dipped on draughty windowsills as we went by and I saw the vague shapes of inhabitants watching us and shrinking back into the gloom. Peter urged me up to the fifth floor and the particular apartment door we were after.

536 / Appt D

Unlike the doors beside it, the red paint wasn't blistered and the number was on a neat little sign, not written with pen. Someone who lived here took some pride in this humble abode. But the door didn't reveal much more.

Before I could even ask Peter what he thought we should do, he raised his fist and knocked hard, three times.

I held my breath.

A square letterbox, almost at head height, flapped upwards. There was warm light and a waft of delicious baking smells. It took a moment to see a face there. We could see the wrinkled, dark orange skin and the thin, cracked lips, painted a festive scarlet. The teeth were yellow and broken.

A very unfriendly voice came out of the mouth. ‘Go away,' it said. ‘Whatever you're after, we don't have any of it here. Go and bother someone else. It's Christmas, you know!'

41

‘Please madam,' said Peter, so politely. ‘My friend here was given this address and it's very important to her.'

I felt unsure and numb, standing out on that fire escape. I was trying not to look down.

‘What's that?' demanded the ancient voice. It was so scratchy it was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman. ‘Well, let her speak for herself, why don't you? What is it you're after, girl? Why are you knocking on doors where no one wants you? Why are you bothering old folks on Christmas Eve?'

When my voice at last came out, I sounded so young and shaky. ‘It was just an idea, that's all. I'm not even sure why we came knocking on your door. We'll go now.' I made a swift gesture to Peter. I was shivering. ‘This was a mistake.' I turned back to the flap in the door. ‘Goodbye, then.'

The wrinkled face gurned. The old woman was chewing her own lips thoughtfully. It looked like she was powering up to unleash a stream of horrible invective on us. We were going to get berated for wasting her precious time.

Something went clink and fizz in my mind. The echo of a memory.

I remembered another nasty old woman who pursed her lips just like that, and who'd chomp her yellow teeth before she bawled you out.

There was no time to develop the thought any further. Thudding footfalls made the whole fire escape tremble. Someone large, heavy and determined was running up the zigzagging staircases from ground level towards us, coming at speed.