Provender Gleed (50 page)

She continued walking, and was soon drawn towards an area of greenery that shimmered, mirage-like, at the base of the nearest block but one. It looked as incongruous and unreal as any desert oasis: an acre (she estimated) of newly-laid turf which stretched around the corner of the block, with mature pines and cypresses planted in it, clumps of shrubbery, some outcrops of boulder, and even a meandering manmade stream. Several of the estate's residents were out and about among the greenery, some wandering, others lolling on benches or basking on the grass. A pair of Young Moderns were perched on one of the boulder outcrops with that unmistakable air of
our patch
about them, but somehow their cocksureness seemed tempered, as though the novelty of their location - sitting on rock, surrounded by grass - was something they were still acclimatising to.

Is ventured further into the estate, and higher, climbing an external staircase until she arrived at a tenth-storey plaza. Here, too, greening had occurred. Huge potted palms and fig trees overshadowed a square of rock garden, at the epicentre of which stood a brand new recreation area for children - swings, seesaw, a climbing frame like a scale-model skeletal city. Kids swarmed everywhere, putting the gleaming equipment to the test. They swung the swings higher than they were intended to go and they clambered like monkeys over the climbing frame and dangled precariously from the uppermost bars. One boy, Is noted, seemed to prefer the rock garden and was busy trying to kick loose a cemented-in stone with his foot. With persistence, he would no doubt prevail. Another boy, no less destructive, was picking at the bark of one of the palms, tearing off small strips.

Probably this would happen more and more, it occurred to Is. None of this new stuff would stay pristine and undamaged. That was just how people were.

But at least someone was making the effort. At least someone (Provender) was trying to brighten up the estate.

If only she could be sure it was purely for the Needle Grovers' benefit and not for his own.

Elsewhere, she came across a small jungle.

A hothouse clustered with cacti and ferns.

A building site which would, when finished, if she didn't miss her guess, be a crazy-golf course.

Another building site which was evidently on its way to becoming a yew hedge maze.

She went higher still, and higher, traversing from block to block, and each time she halted and looked out she saw another patch of the estate that was being or had been transformed, verdured, swarded. Residents she passed were already sounding blasé about the improvements being visited on their home, and several of them assumed that the Risen London Authority was responsible and that, mark their words, this meant rents would be going up, just you wait and see. Their cynicism was ingrained. They couldn't help being jaded about the widespread emeralding of the estate. But still, in their eyes, they did look just that little bit pleased.

Finally Is reached the apex of one block; she could go no higher. From this lofty vantage point she observed that the tops of a number of other blocks now sported roof gardens. She observed, too, how the introduction of lush green areas altered the look of Needle Grove. The blocks no longer crowded side by side in rigid ranks. They were softly connected, cushioned. The greenery brought untidiness, and with that untidiness, relief.

What she could not distinguish, even from so high, was the pattern of her name writ large across the estate. Only a bird flying overhead might perceive it, or the pilot of an aircraft, or God. She had the feeling, however, that because the component parts of the pattern were so disparate, so unalike, the naked eye - even God's - would not be able to make it out. Only someone who had seen the word highlighted on the plans would know it was there.

Provender.

Such a grand gesture. Such a flashy gesture.

What did he hope to achieve by it?

Is knew. She didn't like to admit it, but she knew. What she also knew but didn't like to admit was that - damn him - it was working.

Back at the hospital, there was a car waiting for her. Outside the ground-floor entrance to the nurses' lodgings. A pearl-white Dagenham Seraph. Hovering on the tarmac, its idling motor like the flutter of wings.

The chauffeur stood by the rear door, which was open. He recognised Is and saluted her, nudging the peak of his cap.

Is peered into the rear of the car. It was empty - nobody on the back seat.

Empty, expecting to be filled.

She paused.

The chauffeur now fixed his gaze into the middle distance, under orders not to interfere, not to influence her in any way. Her decision and hers alone.

She continued to pause, knowing that whatever choice she made now, it was irrevocable. The offer being extended to her was, she understood, one-time only. No going back. No room for second thoughts.

The Seraph hummed.

Who was she? What had she done to deserve this?

She was Is. She was nobody.

At long last, she made up her mind.

With solid determination, and just a hint of a smile, she moved as if towards the car.

The chauffeur gently laid a hand on the rim of the door, smiling too.

And then --

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to extend his gratitude - in an ideal world it would be his extravagance as well - to the following:

Simon Spanton (M.S. POINTS ANON) and Gillian Redfearn (AN ELFIN DEAR GIRL) for their insightful, in-depth editing;

Ilona Jasiewicz (IN-CASE-O'-JAIL WIZ) and Krystyna Kujawinska (JINK AWAY, STRAY SKUNK) for their help with the Polish dialogue, especially the sweary bits;

Antony Harwood (A NON-WORDY OATH) and James Macdonald Lockhart (CLAN ADDS TOOL - JACKHAMMER) for being A GENT'S agents;

everyone at Arts Council South East (SALUTE COUTH COIN STARS) for their generous financial support;

and Peter Crowther (WHERE P.C. ROTTER?), Eric Brown (BROWN RICE), Adam Roberts (DR. AT SOME BAR), Roger Levy (GREY LOVER), and Chris Wooding (I OWN RICH GODS), for their generous non-financial support.

This book is fondly dedicated to my family, Lou Lovegrove (OO, LUV, LEG-OVER!) and Monty Lovegrove (ROT MY OVEN-GLOVE) ... and also to my Family.

- James Lovegrove

(ELSE: V. V. MAJOR EGO)

www.jameslovegrove.com