Dream London (36 page)

I passed into the living quarters. Two doors, marked
men
and
women
. I went into the men’s quarters. There was nothing there but bunks. Thin mattresses barely thicker than the thin blankets that covered them. Somewhere for the men to sleep in shifts. There was nothing else there. No possessions whatsoever.

I went into the women’s quarters, and found them just the same as the men’s. I walked down rows and rows of bunks, and something caught my eye. There on the floor, a bloom of dirty pink. I bent down to see a doll’s head staring back at me. Some child’s makeshift toy, dropped in the sudden evacuation.

Where had they all gone?

I knew the answer. I had seen it earlier. These people had served their purpose in Dream London and now they were to be transferred to where they could be more profitable.

I held the doll’s head in my hand, and I squeezed it hard.

OCHRE

SNAKES AND LADDERS

S
OME PEOPLE TREAT
life like a game of chess. For most people, life treats them as players in a game of Snakes and Ladders.

Snakes and Ladders Square started out as a tiny space at the back of Dream London Hospital. A tiny cobbled yard, halved by a wooden fence that cut out all the light save for the few shafts of sun that vaulted into the dimness at midday. The caretaker who opened the door leading into that dank space used the yard to dispose of waste cardboard boxes. It was easier than taking them to the incinerator, and besides, he could listen in on the nurses chatting at the other side of the fence, he could eavesdrop as they shared their previous night’s conquests whilst smoking their break-time cigarettes.

This was before the changes, back when the rain still fell in a cold drizzle, soaking the boxes and leaving a brown mush on the cobbles stirred only by the rats. Of the former yard, only a little patch of stone was left, ten stones by ten stones.

And then the changes had come, and a story arose.

Back then, the caretaker had looked out the back once every couple of days, and he had watched the little yard grow. He had seen the hundred little cobbles gradually flatten into black marble squares. Over the weeks the yard had grown, and as it did so the former cobbles had grown to the size of flagstones. The sounds of the nurses faded, the wooden fence was overgrown with ivy and light flooded back into the little yard, now not so little. Now the caretaker could walk into the middle of the square and gaze up at the red brick walls of Dream London Hospital. No one ever looked back down at him from those blind windows.

Perhaps the caretaker should have spent more time thinking about the space beyond the walls of the yard. Perhaps he should have thought about what was happening beyond the ivy-covered fence, now turning to metal, but who can blame him if he spent his time looking at the patterns forming on the great flagstones of the floor?

The black marble squares grew bigger than a man. Grooves formed upon them, spaces that wormed their way across the shiny surfaces, hovering on the edge of meaning. And then, from the twisting shapes, symbols formed. The numbers came first, counting from 1 to 100. The pictures that formed behind them were too hazy to make out, or so the caretaker said. Worse, they seemed to rearrange themselves. Every time the door was opened the numbers were in a different position. Or maybe he was just making excuses for his foolishness, because surely any Dream Londoner would know better than to step out of a door onto the square marked
one
?

T
HAT’S THE STORY
anyway, and it’s a story told every night in a different pub in Dream London. The door will swing open and a man will stagger in, dressed in rags and with a beard down to his waist. He will ask for a drink, for something to eat, and more often than not he will be given both because everyone likes a good story, particularly if it’s accompanied by a good act. The caretaker will tell how he is traversing the board of Snakes and Ladders, how every night he takes another step, and each time he is raised up on a ladder or swallowed down by a snake. The disbelieving crowd will ask the caretaker how he got here, and why he is not still upon the board, but the caretaker will just shake his head and shiver, and go on eating and drinking.

I’ve never seen him myself. Maybe it’s just a story, but nonetheless, Snakes and Ladders Square exists. A vast empty space with Dream London Hospital on one side and the Dream London Footballdrome on the other. There are lines of pubs and cafés at the bottom of Snakes and Ladders Square, and ivy covered railings at the top. There are 98 squares in Snakes and Ladders Square, numbered from 2 to 99.

Squares 1 and 100 are yet to be found.

T
RAILS OF BLACK
birds filled the skies, streaming in from miles around, heading for a point somewhere beyond Snakes and Ladders Square. The sounds of singing and laughter and drums filled the night, and the perfume of the flowers was enough to make Tower Bridge raise itself in salute.

Snakes and Ladders Square, already vast, had grown larger to accommodate the people who had come there for the party, for the women, for the drink, for the spectacle. The sun was setting in crimson at the far end, bringing a feeling of the end of the world to the red-shadowed people. It felt as if the sun had got it right, and the people who had come for a party raised a glass to the sun as they drank themselves into oblivion.

I was there on square number 3, down at the bottom, waiting for the night to begin.

People were staggering. Streams of football supporters emerged from the Footballdrome, burgundy and silver colours from the one end, brown and cream from the other. Some were heading for the line of shops and pubs along the bottom edge of the square. Those that couldn’t be bothered to stagger that far headed for the vendors closer at hand, their carts and barrows dispensing beer and whisky. Across the square, doctors and nurses lined up before the red brick walls of Dream London Hospital, ready for business.

The square was filled with a festival atmosphere. The sounds of laughing and cheering, of people squaring up for a fight...

... but not the sort of fight I was looking for them to take part in. I’d come to raise an army, what I had was a rabble. I had a drunken crowd of hedonists who would fight for their own gain and would run at the first sign of danger. Dream London had done its job well, subduing any rebellion in its own fashion.

Football fans, whores, party goers, sightseers... The musicians were also out in force. Fiddles and guitars, flutes and accordions, each of them providing their own little bubble of contrasting music, adding to the air of cacophony.

This was a party, not an army.

“Jim!”

I didn’t recognise the woman at first. She wore a striped dress with a bustle, and a man in a dark scarlet coat stood at her side.

“Jim, it’s me.”

“Hello, Christine,” I said.

“It’s Mrs Cadwallader now,” she said, holding out her hand to show me the ring.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“It’s been something of a whirlwind romance, to be honest. Eric is something big in the New Territories. We’re heading out there tonight, after the party...”

I looked at Eric. He had a square, honest face, a big moustache. He looked like a man you could trust.

“Good, I am pleased,” I said.

“Are you sure, Jim?”

She touched my arm, a look of concern on her face, and as I gazed at her I realised that whatever I had once felt for her had gone. Dream London had eaten up the old Christine.

“Really,” I said. “I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You too, Mr Cadwallader,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.

He smiled at me, and they turned to go. I was distracted by a familiar voice.

“Mister James! Mister James!”

I turned at the sound of my name, Christine already forgotten.

“Hello, Mister Monagan.”

The orange man looked as pleased to see me as ever. He had found a camouflage jacket from somewhere, and he wore it over his white shirt and dark trousers with pride.

“I was waiting for you here, just like you asked! I knew you’d make it here!”

“Did you bring the girls?” I asked.

“I did.” He pointed over to Gentle Annie and the rest, dressed in their Friday best: stockings and garters and low cut tops. The girls were standing on square 15, flirting with a group of football fans. Lovely Rita was being pulled towards a laughing fan by the maroon scarf he had thrown around her neck.

“Gentle Annie will know what to do,” I said, approvingly. “Fire the men up with the promise of something after the fight. Get them drunk enough so they lose their fear, but not so drunk they’re not good for anything....”

The fan pulled Lovely Rita close for a kiss. Laughing ,she pushed him away.

“You’re all talk,” I heard her say. “I like a man who can handle himself.”

“I can handle myself,” said the fan, over the laughter of his friends.

“Really? Prove it, then.”

The fan looked at his friends.

“Come here and kiss me and I’ll prove it!” he said.

“No,” said Rita, and she slipped out from under the scarf. “I don’t think so. You look too delicate for me.”

“Delicate?” shouted the man. “I’ll show you delicate!”

“Well done, Rita,” I murmured.

Gentle Annie saw me. She slipped away from the laughing crowd and crossed to join me on square 3. The red setting sun highlighted the fine lines around her eyes.

“We’re doing our best, Captain, but it’s hard. These men would rather watch people fight than fight themselves.”

“Who wouldn’t, Gentle Annie? Just do your best.”

She fumbled in her skirts.

“Here,” she said. She passed me something that looked like a wide brass pistol.

“Is that a flare gun?” I asked.

“Sort of,” she said. “Dream London has modified it, but it will do the job. It will summon our army to you.”

“And then we can march. We can attack Angel Tower.” I put the flare gun in my pocket. “Thank you, Annie. You’ve done well. Now, go out and do your part!”

“Aye aye, Captain!” She gave a mock salute and went to rejoin her girls. I looked at them with pride: they knew their stuff, the way that they constantly danced just beyond the football fans’ reach, teasing them, spurring them on. I looked at them with shame. I had done that to them. I pushed the thought from my mind.

“You’ve done a good job, too, Mister Monagan,” I said, turning to the orange man.

“Do you really think so?” He beamed with delight.

“I do. Now, do you know where Bill is?”

Mister Monagan nodded.

“She’s gone to Euston Station.”

“What for?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Thanks, Bill,” I murmured. I sighed. “Did she have any messages for me?”

“No,” said Mr Monagan. “Well...”

He looked a little embarrassed.

“What did she say, Mr Monagan?”

He turned a toe on the black marble floor, traced a stripe on the back of a snake.

“She said that you’d served your purpose. That I should just forget about you now.”

Go to the Inn to meet a friend, one who will betray you.

“She was never really a friend to me, anyway,” I murmured.

“What was that, Mr James?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What about Amit? Where has he got to?”

“Amit says he will meet you on square 73 with fifty men, all armed with swords and chakras.”

That was more like it. Although...

“Chakras? What are they?”

“Sharp metal hoops,” said Mr Monagan, seriously. “Amit showed me how to throw one. Oh, you need to be so careful with them, Mister James, or you’ll cut yourself. Amit’s men are well trained.”

“I bet they are.”

“So what now, Mister James?”

I looked to the east. Angel Tower rose up in the distance, its full extent piercing the darkening sky, dwarfing the floodlights that looked down over the Footballdrome. The tower seemed to be laughing at us. Fifty Sikhs armed with swords and chakras would not cause it much a of a problem, I thought.

“What now, Mister Monagan?” I said, sounding more cheerful than I felt. “We have an army forming, so now we need to look for someone for them to fight. Come on!”