Un Lun Dun (21 page)

43

Flickering Streets

The giraffes bleated hungrily in the distance as Hemi led Deeba through the unstable streets of Wraithtown, past shops and offices clouded with their own remembered selves. Most of the spectral entourage dissipated. There were only a few flickers of ectoplasm as a curious dead or two flitted around Deeba.

“I cannot even believe,” Deeba said again, “that you’re taxing me for this.”

“Um, excuse me!” Hemi said. “This ain’t my business. And the way you’ve been talking about us, I think you’re dead lucky I’m helping you at all.”

“‘Help,’” Deeba muttered bitterly. “Half my cash…”

“Yeah.” Hemi grinned. He fanned himself ostentatiously with the out-of-date currency he’d insisted Deeba pay him before he’d escort her. “Pleasure doing business.”

“I am
out
of here the second we’re done,” Deeba muttered.

“Oh boo hoo,” said Hemi. “No, please stay.” They eyed each other.

“I know, I know,” Hemi said occasionally to one or another wisp they passed. “It’s alright, she’s with me.”

“We’re not used to heartbeaters in Wraithtown,” he told Deeba.

They passed phantasms of streetlights, in old styles, where illuminations had been and had gone. Little groups of ghosts gathered at street corners. They stood—or wafted, their legs disappearing—in costumes from throughout history.

“When you talk about them, you keep saying ‘us,’” Deeba said. “But you’re not like the rest.” Hemi looked away. “Someone told me that you’re half…How come I can hear you?

Plus…” Deeba reached out and shoved him.

“You’re solid.”

Hemi sighed.

“Mum was a Londoner like you,” he said. “Born two hundred years ago, died a hundred and sixty-five years ago. Dad wasn’t dead at all. He was an UnLondoner, came to Wraithtown out of curiosity.

“Mum tried to spook him. So she was all floaty sheets and
woooo!
and
wooaaah!
and so on. But he wasn’t scared. The way they told it…he just fell for her, right then. And so one thing led to another.”

“But
how
? If she wasn’t even…solid…”

“Some ghosts can get physical. A bit. A few. She was one.” There was a silence.

“Problem was,” he said glumly, “his family didn’t like it, and her friends thought she was sick. They managed to make everyone angry.”

“You the only one?”

Hemi shrugged.

“I dunno,” he said. “Never met any others.”

“So you live here with your parents?”

“Mum went to Thanatopia when I was ten. Dad said she tried to stay, but when that tide takes you…Dad disappeared a bit later.” Hemi spoke briskly. “Some locals didn’t like him living in Wraithtown. Maybe they scared him out. Or worse. Or maybe he did what he had to to be with Mum again.”

“Sorry,” Deeba muttered, shocked.

“Don’t matter,” he said, perhaps too brightly. “There are some great people here. Even if there are some dead who don’t like me because I’m half-alive, that’s not all of them. It’s the living who
really
don’t like me around, ’cause I’m half-ghost. I can look after myself. Full ghosts don’t eat, but I do. Luckily my ghost half makes it easy to, ah, go shopping out there.” He winked.

Before them was a building and its ghosts. It was a cement office, enshrouded with the specters of a Victorian house, a tumbledown Georgian structure, and a medieval-looking hovel. They shimmered around it and each other. Over its front door was a printed plastic sign, ghosted with an older hand-painted version, that read: W
RAITHTOWN
C
OUNCIL
.

Hemi pulled the front doors open for Deeba, and the ghosts of all the earlier doors went with them. Deeba entered many layers of history.

44

Postmortem Bureaucracy

If it was confusing being in Wraithtown itself, surrounded by the ghosts of earlier forms, being in the building was overwhelming.

The corridor seemed to grow thicker and thinner as its ghosts eddied. The walls were lined with certificates and pictures, each surrounded by more in spectral form. Overlaying the lights were the ghosts of bare bulbs and of intricate chandeliers.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Deeba said.

“You’re just ghostsick,” said Hemi. “It’ll settle down.”

Behind a desk—and countless ghost-desks—on which was a computer, sheaves of paper, pens, and all their ghosts, sat a fat ghost in a tracksuit.

Can I help you?
he mouthed, then looked up. He bolted to what would have been his feet, had his legs not terminated in wafts of nothing. He began to shout, silently.

Hemi shouted back.

“Don’t you talk to me like that,” he said. “Yes, she’s living, and yes, I
am
‘that boy.’ I don’t care what you think, it’s your job to give information. No she’s not, she’s a
Londoner,
you idiot.” He rolled his eyes. “No, of course that’s not a banishgun, that’s an umbrella.” Deeba was impressed with how fierce Hemi was.

“Now,” he said. “Tell us what we need to know. Or I’ll report you.”

The fat ghost sat down sulkily. Deeba saw him eye Hemi and say something.

Hemi didn’t react. What had the ghost said? She made the shapes with her own lips, to work it out.

She knew suddenly what he had called Hemi, and she stared at him with dislike.
Half-breed.

“Alright, what do you need?” Hemi said.

“The record of all the deadists,” Deeba said. “I need to check if someone’s listed.

“The name is Benjamin Hue Unstible.”

“What?”
said Hemi.
What?
mouthed the ghost.

“What are you talking about?” Hemi said. “Unstible’s not dead. He came out of hiding! He’s doing his whole plan, he’s sorting out UnLondon from the Smog, he’s vulcanizing the unbrellas…”

“I know, I know,” Deeba said. “I’m paying for this, aren’t I? So just do me a favor and look. It’s probably nothing.”

“You are out of your mind,” Hemi chuckled.

The ghost ostentatiously threw up his hands, and opened a filing cabinet by yanking its ghost-drawers, which drew the solid drawer at the center with them. He riffled through papers.

“Nope,” said Hemi eventually, when the ghost shouted something. “No Unstibles in Wraithtown.”

“Okay,” said Deeba slowly. “Well…that’s good.”
Have I come all the way to UnLondon for nothing?
she thought
. The people in the RMetS must have made a mistake.

“What about in Thanatopia itself?” she said. “Is there another file?”

“You heard her,” said Hemi. “Double-check! Chop-chop!” The bureaucrat ghost looked sourly at him but, obviously deciding it was the easiest way of getting rid of them, rose and wafted to a back office, miming
wait
and mouthing something.

“He says new paperwork gets here from the Thanatopian office every couple of months,” said Hemi.

“Couple of months?” said Deeba. “If I’m right, Unstible might have…moved to Thanatopia in the last few weeks.”

Hemi sighed, then looked craftily around, and spoke quietly. “Well, it’s your money. I suppose we could log into the database on the afternet if you really want. That’d be more recent. You know what red tape’s like. This lot’re still happier dealing in hard copy and its ghost. I bet they only use that thing for playing Minesweeper and bog all else.” He nodded at the computer and its riffling halo of older computer ghosts. “Tell me if he’s coming,” he said, and grabbed the keyboard. Hemi found the officer’s password on a ghostly piece of paper stuck to the side of the monitor.

“Does the afternet connect to…what was it they called it in UnLondon…the undernet?” Deeba said.

“Yeah. And both of them to your internet. But not many people can make the connections work. Ah, here we go.”

Deeba saw the fat ghost closing drawers in the other room.

“Quick,” she whispered.

“Alright,” he said, “so if I just…click here, and feed in a few…there we go. We’re in. Now.” He looked at her sideways and shook his head as he typed. “‘Benjamin Hue Unstible,’” he said, and hit return.

The screen went blank, then whirred, then flashed up a single entry.

B
ENJAMIN
H
UE
U
NSTIBLE
.

THANATOPIAN CITIZENSHIP GRANTED.
New immigrant.

CAUSE OF IMMIGRATION:
smoke inhalation/poisoning.

There was a very long silence.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Hemi.

“I was
right,
” Deeba said, and clenched her fists.

“Unstible died weeks ago,” said Hemi. “Killed by…the Smog?”

“So…could it be his ghost, handing out unbrellas?” Deeba said. “It doesn’t look anything like any of you lot…”

“No,” said Hemi. “If he were a ghost he’d be listed as having moved to Wraithtown. Unstible’s passed over completely. Whatever that thing is, whatever it looks like, whatever it’s doing…it’s not Benjamin Unstible.”

45

Nasty Rain

Hey!
the ghost mouthed, seeing them on the computer. It scattered the ghost-papers it held, and floated towards them shaking its fist.

“Print it!” said Deeba. Hemi stabbed at the buttons. “Quick!”

The chubby ghost reached for the paper as it emerged, but Hemi snatched it and gave it to Deeba. The ghost banged on the keyboard and the screen went blank.
What you doing?
he bellowed silently as Deeba and Hemi ran.

The paper was hard to read. The typeface was surrounded by whorls of ghost-print, a flickering of all the fonts once used on official forms. And the paper had obviously been recycled. Its previous forms—scribbled messages and newspaper pages—floated around it.

But through all the spectral interference, Unstible’s name and the details of his “immigration to Thanatopia”—his death—could be made out.

“That proves it,” said Hemi, pausing in the building’s entrance. Deeba folded the printout carefully into her pack.

“I
told
you,” she said.

“Alright, alright,” said Hemi, shoving her towards the door as behind them a crowd of irate bureaucrat ghosts appeared.

When they emerged, the UnSun had dawned. Deeba stared at the strange, familiar shape.

“We got to tell Brokkenbroll,” said Deeba urgently. “And the Propheseers.”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Hemi. He looked behind him nervously as they walked through Wraithtown. “‘We’? This is your thing. I’m sorry, but I did what you paid for. Good luck, I’m gone.”

“Wait, what?” Deeba stopped and stared at him. “You
can’t.
You’re joking.
It isn’t Unstible
who’s doing things. Don’t you see? Something’s really wrong. I need to get to the Pons Absconditus. Can you help?”

“Its touchdown’s nowhere near here,” Hemi said. “You could get a bus but…” He seemed to sniff the air. “It’s a Rogueday. I don’t know how often they run on a Rogueday.”

“Hold on,” Deeba said. “Rogueday. You remember where I first met you?”

“’Course,” he said. “I was breakfast shopping.”
Stealing,
Deeba thought. “In the market, just up the way.”

“I’ve got a friend there who might help us.”

“There’s no
us,
” Hemi said. “I don’t know
what’s
going on, but I can
not
get involved.”

“But…don’t you care?” Deeba said. “It’s UnLondon…” She stopped suddenly. She’d never seen him so agitated. She realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was that he was overwhelmed. And she remembered what had happened to him in the market.

She needed his help. Deeba almost despaired. One thing that stopped her was that though Hemi kept acting as if he was about to walk away, he didn’t. She thought quickly. He obviously had to fend for himself.

“Look,” she said, thinking carefully. She took out the rest of the money she’d brought. “This is all I have. It’s yours, all of it, if you’ll help me. I can’t do this on my own.” Her voice almost caught.

Hemi eyed the cash. He hesitated. He reached for it slowly.

“Nuh-uh,” Deeba said, pulling her hand back. “Cash on delivery. Get me to the bridge—it’s all yours. Or at least to the market—we’ll work something out. Promise. Please.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Hemi muttered. “I’m
really
not sure about this.”

They were at the edge of Wraithtown, peering across a stretch of concrete at the market, the traders and shoppers. A wall must have stood there years before, and they were huddled behind its ghost. Deeba squinted through misty spectral bricks, past the upside-down bathtub and concrete mixer and supermarket trolleys that were growing at the plaza’s edges.

“It’ll be fine,” Deeba said.

“It will
not
be fine,” Hemi said. “They hate me.”

“Well, I guess now I’m here, you don’t have to come
in,
” Deeba said hesitantly.

“Whatever,” Hemi said vaguely. “I might as well stick it a bit longer, earn the rest of the dosh.”

“Okay,” said Deeba without looking at him.

She held on to his hand and walked through the ghost of the wall. She felt a faint resistance, and then she was through.

“And I promise,” Deeba added, “I won’t let them chat any rubbish at you. And that includes Obaday.”

Halfway to the market, Hemi stopped.

“Wait,” he said. There was terrible urgency in his voice. He pointed up.

Light was leaving the sky. Racing across the pale circle of the UnSun came black cloud, like squirted ink. It was rushing up from the streets, spreading above the roofs, tugging itself through the air, approaching the market.

People had seen it. Some were standing their ground and looking up, scared but trying to be brave. Many were running. They scattered towards the surrounding houses.

“Quick, quick, quick,” said Hemi. “We have to get under cover. It’s the Smog.”

“What about your unbrella?” he said as they ran.

“It’s not an unbrella,” Deeba said breathlessly, “it’s an
um
brella…”

“Can it protect us? No?
What’s the point of that?
”

Hemi looked around quickly, and ran to a manhole cover in the street.

“Help me!” he said, and he and Deeba began to pry it from the ground.

Hemi’s hands moved fast. He tensed with effort, and for a moment she couldn’t see what he did with his fingers.

“Got to get the lock,” he muttered, then: “Yes!” Something clicked, and they hauled the cover from the street. “Get in, quickly.”

He followed Deeba onto the ladder in the dank hole. Hemi hauled the covering back over them, wedged it with a stone, so they could peer through the crack.

Ankles in shoes scampered around them, as well as wheels and other odder limbs. The air was darkening.

There was a clattering. The metal lid began to ring like a cymbal. Pellets ricocheted.

Some way off, Deeba could just see a woman who had been issued an unbrella standing unafraid as the onslaught began. The unbrella leapt, pulling the woman’s hand above her head, spun, blocking the Smog’s attacks, sending its missiles flying.

Chunks of carbon were slamming into the pavement, centimeters from Deeba’s face. The air was full of slugs of metal that hit hard enough to chip the pavement.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Hemi, and lowered the lid.

They clung in darkness. The noise was enormous. Below the hammering of the Smog’s attack Deeba could hear shouts, and screams of pain. And underlying everything a noise that could be thunder, or could be an enormous growling voice.

“It’s showing what it can do,” Hemi whispered. “It’s been attacking like this every few days. And it’s had its addicts or its smombies start fires. It’s declaring war.”

The cacophony eventually eased, and stopped, and only the moans of injured could be heard. Slowly, Hemi pushed back the lid and they stepped out.

Throughout the market, injured people lay. A few were lying still, punctured and bleeding from where the Smog’s missiles had hit them. The stalls were ripped and smoking.

All over the pavement and between the rows of tents the market was littered with remnants of the attack. Nuggets of metal and mineral from thumb- to fist-sized lay and smoldered. As Deeba watched, they slowly evaporated. They fizzed like dissolvable pills, and their matter boiled off in smoke that wafted away.

The sky was clear. The Smog had gone.

People emerged from dugouts and the cellars and the barricaded emptish buildings into which they had leapt. They examined the shredded awnings.

There were also the lucky few with unbrellas.

“This is going to work,” said a woman. She twirled her broken unbrella, its spokes bent into an ugly claw, its upper surface boiling with smoke from the attacks it had deflected. “Did you see?”

Her companion was a man in an outfit of tied-together ribbons. “You’re right,” Deeba heard him say reverentially. He twirled his own unbrella. It was bent in its shaft. “Nothing could touch us. I wasn’t even doing anything—were you? It’s all Brokkenbroll. They’re all obeying him.”

Hemi knelt by a victim of the terrible mineral rain, a woman in a puffy dress interwoven with ivy. He looked up at Deeba and shook his head.

Some of the injured were being carried away, or tended to by various strange-looking doctors. There were a few others beyond help.

The market after the attack was a strange mixture of the exhilarated and the destroyed. Deeba and Hemi walked through the triumphant, the injured, and, here and there, the dead.