People Park (25 page)

He quashed a Ra-
ven
reprise with an impatient wave.

No, no indeed. What I need from you, from everyone in your fair city, is to know you are the
right
sort of people — are you? Are you the right sort of people?

They were sure about this: Yes! hollered the crowd.

Raven’s eyes widened. Are you
really
? Do you
believe
?

Yes! (Really! misspoke Kellogg.)

Because this will not work without the right sort of people — people who
believe
, people who are willing to open their eyes and
look
. None of us knows what the fair semblance of a city might conceal. Is it no better than a brushed exterior? A white sepulchre? Or perhaps rather illustrative than magical?

Cheers.

What you will see tonight will not be deception, nor an illusion, nor some spurious trick of the light.

More cheers.

It will be the truth! That is why I am here, that is what I plan to illustrate to you — humbly, of course. For many such journeys are possible. This is only one.

Again, in a single voice, the crowd performed on cue.

I’ve spent now two full days in your city. When I arrived I
wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do. But, fortunately, I had some
excellent guides who showed me around, and taught me
some
important lessons as well
. . .

Backstage, Olpert felt a twang of anxiety that the illustrationist might mention him by name. He actually felt faint, swooned a little. But Starx caught him — Whoa there, Bailie! — and guided him pondside into a deckchair branded
Municipal Works
. You okay, pal? Starx asked, kneeling. If you’re going to barf again, at least do it in the water.

Raven continued: But here we are! And what a perfect opportunity
to reveal something deeply fundamental to what — I think, at least — this city is all about.

The crowd was buzzing now.

Wagstaffe said, Raven’s making hints about what’s to come, though at home in Laing Towers Rupe and his mother didn’t hear this, Cora was smacking the
TV
to coax a picture back. But the set was out. The whole Zone was out.

What sounded like a bomb went off on the common. Olpert nearly fell into the pond.

Easy, buddy, said Starx. No war on yet.

Right, said Olpert. Just the show.

You want to go watch?

Do you?

Hey, said Starx, you make the call. We’re B-Squad, right? Can’t split up B-Squad!

B-Squad, agreed Olpert. Then: Do you mind if we just stay here, Starx?

I do not.

They gazed out over Crocker Pond, a sheet of glossed ebony.

I should pitch a fifth pillar, said Starx. Fidelititum, or something. Because isn’t that what’s most important, Bailie?

Fidelititum?

Exactly.

From the common, another roar. The illustrationist’s voice echoed: Yes, yes!

So here’s my story, said Starx, pulling up a deckchair. I told you I used to be married?

You did.

Well. So. My wife, my ex-wife, she ran this bookshop in Mount Mustela — Bookland.

She ran that?

Still does. Inherited it from her parents. Anyway she’s working late one night. Just doing inventory or whatever. And man, I told her I don’t know how many times it was a bad idea to be there all alone so late. Even though it’s east of the canal.

I work alone late.

I know you do, pal. Listen for a sec though? So this one night she’s there, this is two years ago, it’s probably midnight or something, and she looks up and those people are doing that thing where they paint the windows black —

In
Mount Mustela
?

My lady, god love her, she’s a tough bird, she goes right out front and is like, what are you doing to my store, I’m right here! There are maybe a dozen of those fuggin animals. And, sure, they stop painting. But then they just close in on her.

Oh no.

Starx stood, started pacing. I would have killed them, he said, wheeling at Olpert and brandishing one of his little fists. If I’d been there, I mean. You hear me?

What happened?

What the fug do you think happened?

I don’t —

What happened was that she came home and told me, she’s crying, and I’m — Bailie. I don’t know what to do. I can’t even describe this feeling. Not even
angry
. It’s something way beyond that, like having some crazy evil part of yourself open up. Your brain starts shooting off in all these directions. I’m picturing finding these people, these animals, and tearing them apart with my bare hands. Just ripping them apart. You know?

From the common the Ra-
ven
chant started up again.

Starx continued: This lady of mine, Bailie, she was a fuggin spitfire. Lakeview-raised, the whole bit. But after this, after they
interfered
with her, she’s half that person. I don’t know what to do, so I call Griggs. He tells me to bring her right away, but she wants to take a shower. She goes into the bathroom and locks the door and I’m out there screaming we have to go, she can’t do this — so what do I do? I break the door down.

Olpert thought,
Interfered
. What did that mean?

My logic is that we have to preserve all the evidence, so the
HG
’s can do what they need to, so I can’t let her shower. Right? And, Bailie, this is not a woman who anyone
lets
do anything. Nobody
didn’t let
her do anything, ever. She just did or didn’t. But now she’s barely there, she’s limp, there’s nothing in her eyes. So I pick her up and carry her outside and — Bailie, it was horrible, horrible. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Starx stopped pacing. He stood at the pond’s edge watching the water, his back to Olpert. Telling Starx about Katie Sharpe
and the frozen apple seemed a terrible mistake now, so indulgent
and pointless. The big man’s whole world seemed
coiled around that singled word —
interfered —
and when he’d spoken it everything had come unspooling: he appeared now smaller, drained, and spent.

From the common came another roar. Raven cried, Who will help me, who will help me, who among you will join me onstage and help me, here, tonight?

POP HANDED HAVOC
and Tragedy a can of spraypaint each. He zipped the duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and flapped his manifesto. Restribution, he said, saluted, and crossed Knock Street at a low scuttle. While Pop stole around the side of the Temple, Tragedy pulled a radio from his jacket, held it to his face, and spoke: Griggs, it’s Pea and Dack, the squab’s in the oven. A reply came crackling back: Good lookin out. Bring him in.

KNEELING ON THE RUG
by the dead
TV
Adine became aware of a stillness that extended beyond her apartment. A blackout, she said, aloud. She moved to the window, opened it, listened. Her neighbours were pouring onto the streets, Adine was struck by
how many they seemed. Their voices were loud and curious, almost
bold, and amplified as though seeking echoes. You without power too? asked someone and someone else replied, Yeah, right in the middle of the show, and Adine thought, Me too, but didn’t call down to them, just listened as the two of them decided to head together to Cinecity. Adine closed the window, sat in the nook, pulled a pillow onto her lap and stared into the goggles. As always, everything was dark. But in a blackedout world, she wondered, what if anything did being blind mean?

SWELLED TO GARGANTUAN
proportions on the videoscreens was the face of the boy, pudgy and astonished, the eyes of someone woken from a dream to live that same dream.

Yes, you, my friend, said Raven, you in the red cap.

With needless help from Kellogg (a hand on his son’s rear), two Helpers lifted the boy onto the catwalk.

From the right sort of people, said Raven, the right sort of boy!

The crowd went berserk with envy and vicarious joy.

Please, now, silence, said Raven. Come, son. Yes. On the ducktape X. Your name?

Gip Poole.

Hello, Gip Poole! Now, Gip Poole, are you the right sort of boy? Do you believe?

Gip looked at his parents. Kellogg shouted, Say yes!

Yes, said Gip.

Raven snapped three times. From the white trunk flew doves, he extended his arms, three landed on the left, two on the right. His expression clouded. He motioned with his fingertips, glared at the trunk. No sixth bird appeared. Snapped three more times. Nothing. The crowd shifted uneasily, the lack of symmetry was unsettling.

With a shrug, Raven lifted his hands over his head, the doves exploded into a shower of sparks. Kellogg screamed and lunged, a Helper straightarmed him behind the barricade. But Gip seemed less frightened than delighted: all around him fire came sizzling down, and he spun happily as though basking in the year’s first snowstorm.

THE AIR IN THE
cavern felt diluted, sapped. Debbie was bumped from behind. This time the touch didn’t feel sensual, but urgent. People seemed to be congregating with new purpose, someone pushed her — and the whole group heaved and she was swept up, into the tunnel, bodies pressed around her on all sides.

And now they were running.

Down they went, zagging left, a hard right — starlings wheeling
in a massive flock. No one said anything. The tunnel descended, swerved, Debbie tripped but she was caught and bolstered, there was no room to fall: a mad, wordless stampede down through the dim warrens of the city.

On they went, and then the tunnel seemed to angle upward again. Debbie’s feet met stairs. She climbed, she was lifted. Ahead a shaft of light shone from some window or opening, and they reached it and burst into the night. The air felt sharp and cool. She looked around: they’d surfaced inside the gates of the Mount Mustela Necropolis.