FIFTEEN

SQUARES 95 AND 96

 

 

WE PUSHED OUR way into the laughing crowd. On square 14 a man reached around from behind a woman and pulled her back onto himself by her breasts. She laughed and turned to kiss him. A group of men cheered.

“This is your army, Mister James?” said Mister Monagan.

“Not yet, Mister Monagan. At the moment they’ve got no reason to fight. They’re not dissatisfied with what’s going on.”

And why would they be? They had drink, food and sex on tap. Dream London had tamed them with its bread and circuses.

“How do we make them dissatisfied?” asked Mister Monagan.

“Gentle Annie and the girls are doing their bit to make them dissatisfied one way,” I said. “We’re going to look for the people who are dissatisfied but just don’t realise it yet. I think they’ll be at the far side of the square...”

We pushed our way on through the crowds. Men pressed beer on us, women tried to kiss us, everyone asked us to dance, to sing, to sit and look at the sky. We ignored them all.

“Do you know the score, mate?”

The young man stood at the top of a ladder in the middle of square 55, smoking a lilac cigarette. He pushed up close to me now, his pupils vastly expanded.

“I said, do you know the score, mate? The Hammers versus the Armoury?”

“Sorry, no,” I said.

“I do,” said the young man. He drew deeply on his cigarette. “Hammers won by four goals, two kisses and a logical inconsistency.”

“You’ve no idea how happy that makes me,” I said.

“The Hammers will be here soon. The boys in burgundy know how to party.”

“Ah, but, do they know how to fight?” I asked.

“Fight? The Hammers? Course they do!”

“Then tell them to meet me at square 93. I’ll show them a fight.”

“Yeah, right.”

I didn’t know whether he was being sarcastic or not.

“On second thoughts, forget it. I’ll ask the Armoury boys instead. They’re the ones to have on your side when it kicks off.”

“The Armoury? If you’re taking on the Dream London Nursery maybe. For a proper pagga you need the Hammers. Square 93 you say?” He tapped his nose. “I’ll have a few of the lads there with me.”

“Good man.”

We pushed our way on. It was funny the way people stood on the marble stones of Snakes and Ladders Square. Always avoiding the edges. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. We were approaching the top of the square. Now I could see the green spaces beyond. The parks were rolling up on us like a green avalanche. Sometime during the course of the day the hills and trees that been hidden from us for so long had swollen up like the sea and were now flooding down on us in slow motion. It was like facing the green foothills of a great mountain range, the parks seeming to slope upwards, rising up into the deep sky that seemed to go on forever. And yet it was just some trick of the eye. The deep purple sky hung above us as it always did, filled with the black birds of evening, lording it over us, as they flicked back and forth at tremendous pace.

“Do you see it, Mister Monagan?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound very impressed.”

“Should I be?” He looked around the crowd, uncertain. “No one else seems to be paying particular attention. To be honest, I don’t know what’s normal in a city as wonderful as Dream London.”

Maybe he didn’t. He was right when he said that most people didn’t seem to notice. They were all too busy partying as the old world ended.

It took us almost ten minutes to make it to the top of Snakes and Ladders Square. Iron railings rose up above the heads of the people there, twisted into glorious patterns.

“Mister James,” said Mister Monagan, tugging at my sleeve. “I think I found your army.”

“I thought they’d be here,” I said.

Squares 95 and 96 lay at the top of the centre of the square. Square 95 had the top of a ladder upon it, square 96 the head of a snake. There was a wide set of gates that stretched the extent of the two squares at their edge, and beyond the gates, the park.

A crowd of grey-clothed people waited hopelessly by the iron gates. More slave labour from the workhouses.

“I’ve seen people like this waiting all around the city,” said Mister Monagan.

“So have I. Come on.”

The people from the workhouse stood in neat lines of ten, men on one side, women and children on the other. They gazed at the ground, empty of feeling. I’d tried recruiting them once before without success. This time I was prepared.

I walked up to a nearby fellow and shook him on the shoulder.

“I’m James Wedderburn,” I said.

“I know who you are,” he replied, his voice as dull as his expression.

“Listen, I’m raising an army. Spread the word.”

“An army,” he said. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “Could you feed us?”

I slapped him on the back, full of the bonhomie that had been Captain Wedderburn’s principal coin.

“Feed you?” I said. “Once Angel Tower is defeated there will be steak for everyone!”

“Ah,” said the man. “After we fight. But if we go through the gates there will be bread right away.”

The other men around him nodded at that.

“Ah, but bread and a life of slavery,” I countered.

“Better a life of slavery than death from starvation.”

His dour countenance might have disheartened a lesser man, but not Captain Wedderburn. Okay, I wasn’t Captain Wedderburn any more, but I could still act the part.

“Listen, man. After the battle, all will be free and well fed.”

“Really?” said another man, close by. “I was a soldier once, before the changes. I was laid off by the army after Afghanistan.”

“I was in Afghanistan too,” I said.

“I know that,” said the man. “Did the government treat you well after you left? Has this country ever treated its soldiers well once it had done with them?”

I waved a hand dismissively at this. Captain Wedderburn was a man of dreams, not reality. No wonder Dream London loved him.

“Listen, man! It will be sundown soon. When the sun touches the edge of the park, my army rises! Will you be part of it?”

“Not me, nor anyone else here,” said the ex-soldier with finality. “Your army will not rise up, Captain Wedderburn.” He turned his back on me.

The sun wobbled lower. The workhouse army refused to rise.

“They aren’t listening to you, Mister James!” Mister Monagan wore the expression of one seemingly unable to grasp this concept.

“They will,” I said, but with less confidence than before. Even Captain Wedderburn couldn’t have roused these people, and I wasn’t him any more. I was just another cast-off, another loser.

“Look at the sun!”

I don’t know who said that, but we all turned and looked as the sun finally set over the darkening park.

There was a gentle chime, and the crowd went quiet. Just like that.

The end of the old world had arrived.

The red sun was sliding below the horizon. The tail ends of the dark streams of birds fluttered into the night.

Now there was only stillness and the silence of the setting sun.

“What is it?” asked Mister Monagan, speaking in a whisper. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”

Everyone was looking towards the park. Everyone gazing in the same direction, eyes glowing red in the setting sun. My tongue was wriggling in my mouth.

A long, drawn out creaking noise sounded across the square.

“The gates are opening.”

The gates to Dream London Park swung inwards, welcoming the city into another world. Somewhere in the distance I heard a crashing sound, a feeble cheer, the sounds of people shushing each other.

Someone blew a whistle, and I thought I heard a collective exhalation of breath. The sound of resignation. The grey-clothed ranks of the workhouse inmates began to shuffle forward.

“They’re moving, Mister James! They’re moving.”

Quickly, and in good order, the dispossessed of Dream London marched in ranks towards their new lives. They marched over the hard shiny surface of squares 95 and 96, tap tap tap tap, they stepped onto the gravel path that lay beyond, crunch crunch crunch crunch.

And the party crowd stood and watched them go.

Mister Monagan pulled on my arm.

“Shouldn’t we stop them, Mister James?”

I shook my head.

“It’s sometimes like this in a war, Mister Monagan. It takes people a while to realise what they’re fighting for.”

And you sometimes had to sacrifice some for the good of others. Of course, I couldn’t say that to Mister Monagan.

“But they’re leaving Dream London, Mister James! They don’t know what it will be like through there!” He turned to appeal to the crowd, stood up hard against the edges of 80s squares. “Everyone! Stop them!”

No one moved. Mister Monagan moved forward, took hold of the arms of one of the marchers.

“Stop!” he said. “Don’t go in there! You could be taken anywhere!”

“Wherever it is, it’s got to be better than this place,” said the grey-clothed man. “At least someone wants us in there.”

He shook off Mister Monagan’s hand, and then walked on. Mister Monagan stood in front of the next man. The man dodged around him.

“Stop them!” called Mister Monagan.

“Why?” shouted someone from the crowd. “They’re quite happy.”

Over on the 80s, the sounds of the party gradually resumed. Glasses were clinked, laughter rose. On the 90s, the workers shuffled off to who knew where.

Mister Monagan was almost crying with frustration.

“Don’t they care?” he asked.

“They didn’t care when they went into workhouses, why should they care now?” I said.

Dispirited, we followed the marching line to the very edge of our world. Standing there on square 95 I looked through the gates into a vast green space. The park was lit by a different sun to ours. A silver sun, it lent the geometric lines of trees that ran through the park a certain coldness of aspect. Everything in the park was ordered. The roads, the trees, the neatly trimmed lawns set amongst the wider green countryside. Vast spaces, divided by lines of trees. Roads that travelled this way and that, converging on one point in the distance marked by the glorious gold and white building that had been Buckingham Palace. The silver sun shone coldly on the towers and minarets of the fairytale castle. It lay like a jewelled egg in the green nest of the park.

The only sign of randomness through there was the dark statues that were scattered across the lawns, statues just like the ones at the Spiral, entwined in sexual poses. Statues of people gagged and bound, or tilted over with their arses in the air. They showed a people defeated, subjugated, humiliated.

Save for the grey lines of workers, heading off to their new lives, the park was still.

Then I noticed movement, and I realised that wasn’t true. There were other people in the park too. Several groups, waiting in the distance, scattered across the extent of the green lawns. People waiting for something. People who had come to collect their workers.

Not all of the people in the groups looked quite human: a group to the right of the gates were too tall and thin. The wind shifted their long golden hair, showing how it grew from one point at the top of their heads, and cascaded down over their otherwise bald skulls. A group to their left were dressed in dark clothes and hoods. They moved in an oddly jerky fashion.

What they all had in common, however, was a proprietary air. These were people who dealt in goods and commodities. Even the obviously human group who stood directly before me in frilled shirts and tight trousers had no humanity about them.

As they passed through the gates, the lines of grey workers split along different paths, separated by size and age and health. Now I saw that a man in a bicorn hat stood traffic duty, pointing this way and that, splitting the line of workers, sending them walking in three different directions. The workers seemed resigned to their fate. Why should I get so upset? It wasn’t as if Captain Wedderburn would have cared.

But of course, I wasn’t Captain Wedderburn anymore. I had signed that life away up on the Contract Floor. I was a different man now, and it was much harder being plain James. I seemed to be the only one here who cared. Not the partygoers, not the grey people. So why should I be so bothered?

And then, off in the distance of that other world, the screaming begin.

“Listen!” I called. “Listen!” I bellowed.

No one did. Still the lines of grey shuffled by. Now women were passing me, dirty faces cast down to the ground. “Listen!” I shouted.

A young man wearing an accordion came closer to me.

“Listen to my voice,” he sang, “for I have a song to sing.”

The grey women looked up at that and smiled. Here was a good looking young man. Even the months in the workhouse hadn’t robbed him of his spell.

“Ignore him,” I called. “Listen to me!”

The man played a chord on his accordion and the marching women nodded as they passed by. I broke his nose with the heel of my hand. He fell on his back, the accordion wheezing around his neck.

“Hey...” he began.

“Shut up,” I shouted. He cowered as I glared at him. He took his hand from his nose and looked at the blood there.

“Listen!” I demanded.

The screams were louder now. Finally, the shuffling women heard them too.

“That sounds like children,” said one.

“Not children,” said another. “That’s old people. Old people screaming.”

Finally, finally, the marchers halted. A grey train, half in this world, half in the next. They began to edge backwards.

“Old people. It is!”

“I can’t hear anything.”

“Listen. There in the distance.”

“She’s right.”

There was shouting behind us, the other marchers coming up from behind, the grey huddling masses, trying to get through, calling to those who had halted to get a move on.

“Stop pushing me!”

The women by the gates stood their ground, they tilted their heads to listen.

“Listen,” I shouted. “Listen to the screams! You don’t have to go in! We could fight this!”

The women looked at me. I had their attention. Finally, I had their attention. Caught on the boundary between Dream London and the park, I had my audience. And now I saw a group of men in Hammers scarves, forming back there at square 93, right by the wall of the park. My football fans had come. They were being joined by a group of Armoury fans, dressed in brown and cream. My army was forming...

But in the silence another musician crept in. A young woman with a guitar. She struck a chord.

“Sing, brave women, of the new life that awaits you.”

I took hold of the guitar and smashed it against the ground.

“Hey!” Three men disengaged from the party crowd in the 80s and came over to me. They were swaying, brave on alcohol and each other’s company. Behind me, I had lost the workhouse women’s attention. The heaving crowd forced them on into the park.

“No,” I called. “Come back...”

A hand on my shoulder, pulling me back, pulling me over the line from the 90s to the 80s.

“That’s no way to treat a young lady...”

“You broke her guitar!”

“Not me, you fools!” I called. “We should be fighting that!”

I pointed over their heads, past the floodlights of the Footballdrome to the looming shape of Angel Tower. The men ignored me. One threw a punch. I dodged it and kicked away his feet. Something hit my back and I was on the floor, struggling to get up. Someone kicked my hands away. I heard a shout and caught a flash of orange. Mister Monagan was there, helping out. He was strong, there was no denying that. Strong and fast. A good frog to have on your side in a fight.

I climbed to my feet, still groggy. The crowd had carried me back into the party section, and I was surrounded once more by drunkenness and fornication.

“Oh, Mister Monagan,” I said. “This is hopeless. Really hopeless.”

“Never give up, Mister James.”

“How could I expect to form an army from this rabble? I thought they would follow me. They’re too far out of the habit. They’re all individuals. They won’t follow anyone!”

“They will, you just need to get their attention.”

“How?”

I stared at the ground, and as I did so, I heard it.

Mister Monagan looked at me.

“Can you hear it too, Mister James?” he asked.

I tilted my head. From the distance came a noise completely alien to Dream London.

The crowd heard it. It obviously stirred something within them, the memory of days before the changes. Silence was spreading once more across Snakes and Ladders Square as one of the sounds that Dream London had tried to destroy was heard for the first time in nearly a year.

The sound of a snare drum, and underneath it, the sound of the bass, the sound of steady rhythm, beat by beat. The sound of feet, marching in time. The sound of so many people doing the same thing. Of people united to a common cause, and not expressing themselves freely.

“What is it, Mister James?” asked Mister Monagan.

I stared into his orange eyes. I wondered if, coming as he had from the other worlds, the worlds long conquered by forces such as Angel Tower, he had ever heard people working together like this.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“It’s a band,” I said. “It’s a brass band.”