They were spit out where Mustela Boulevard deadended at Tangent 1, a turnaround from which the 72 Steps switchbacked down the bluffs to Budai Beach. From here the alleged mountain (more modestly, a hill) lifted to the Mount Mustela Necropolis at its top end. On either side were residential neighbourhoods, fractals of courts and crescents, each house and duplex and walkup glowing golden with the lives lived inside. Surf rumbled, the night held the island in its fist, the air smelled of deepfry and the fishy lake, and Kellogg took it all in, beaming.
We’re here, he said. The Pooles have arrived.
I’m hungry, said Gip.
Well how about some island flats? The local specialty, isn’t that right, Pearly?
You bet, she said. Inkerman’s at Mustela and Tangent 4. Best flats in town.
Best in town? Is that what my guidebook says? I thought —
It’s what I say, said Pearl.
Gotcha. Kellogg pointed to a streetlight: a buttery flame danced inside a wrought iron cage. Check it out, guys — fire!
Gas lamps, said Pearl. That’s new.
Why does no one care about me? said Gip. I’m hungry, I said, a million times.
The Pooles swept north, Kellogg in the lead brandishing his CityGuide, Gip next in his knapsack, then Pearl holding hands with Elsie-Anne, who whispered into her purse. At Inkerman’s they were greeted with a HOLIDAY HOURS SORRY notice over padlocked metal shutters.
Great, said Gip thinly, just great. What now? Are we going to starve to death?
Did you take your meds? said Kellogg, then to Pearclass="underline" You gave him his meds, right?
The gas lamps seemed to slow and gutter. At the fur concern next door a man wheeled display racks off the sidewalk, shaggy pelts jostling as if still alive, and closed up for the night. A few doors up a woman was folding up a sandwich board — BOOKLAND: NEW AND USED BOOKS. Kellogg sprinted toward her yelling, Hey, hey you there!
The proprietor slipped into her shop, studied him through a little window in the door.
Hi? said Kellogg. Sorry, we just want directions.
I’m closed, she said, voice muffled. Open by appointment only.
We’re just looking for island flats, he said. Or anything really. Food.
Pearl came up, holding Gip’s and Elsie-Anne’s hands. Raven! screamed Gip, and pointed at the storefront display, a tower of Illustrations: A Grammar.
My family, said Kellogg, gesturing grandly.
The woman spoke to Pearclass="underline" It’s food you’re after? Flats?
Or anything. Anywhere to eat.
Only stuff that’s open now this far north is in UOT. But you don’t want to go there. Not this late. You’d do better down on Knock Street. Lots of restaurants there.
For tourists, said Pearl.
The woman stared.
My wife’s from here, Kellogg explained.
Oh, said the woman.
We’re here for the Jubilee!
Well good luck, said the woman, and trotted off into her store.
Pearl snorted, shook her head. What a charmer. See why I left?
Oh come on now, said Kellogg. Probably gave her a shock is all! But how bad is OUT?
UOT, Upper Olde Towne. I guess there are patrols and stuff now, they’ve cleaned it up a bunch. My friend Debbie lives out there. It’s where we’re meeting later.
So then, really, said Kellogg, how bad can it be?
THE BANQUET HALL was in darkness. From Loopy’s bird sculpture, packed away in the hotel’s meatlocker between two gory sides of beef, one of the catering staff chiselled a few feathers into his end-of-shift schnapps, chugged it, then locked everything up and went home for the night. All but one head table had been cleared and folded up and stacked in a backroom. At this table, swirling a goblet of milk, sat the illustrationist. Beside him was the Mayor, or the two halves of the Mayor: her torso erect on the top shelf of the dessert cart, and below, heaped on the lower tier, her legs. She had the defeated look of a child promised a pony and whose parents instead have divorced.
The illustrationist spoke: This is not what I intended. I had thought to fill these folk with trembling and awe. With desire.
He sighed, swirled his milk, took a sip, swallowed.
The Mayor stared into the shadows of the banquet hall, saying nothing.
Something, anything. I wanted to make them feel. But they long only to be entertained. If that! One wonders if they know what they truly want. . I’m a showman to them, nothing else. One would assume a show then is a means to attract their attention, to ignite some flicker in their spirits that gives way to —
Please fix me, said the Mayor.
Raven shook his head, continued: That gives way not to empty sentiment, Mrs. Mayor, but true, desirous feeling.
I feel something, if that counts. I feel annoyed. I feel you should fix me.
Oh, my sweet queen. That’s not at all what I mean.
PEARL LED THE WAY OUT of Mount Mustela, around a bend, down an alley painted black from road to roof, and out onto a different sort of street: one side all crumbling rowhouses, the other pawnshops and cheque-cashers, windows barred. Trash clotted the gutters, many streetlights were burnt out, the air was sickly and foul with sewage and rot. At the first corner huddled men who went silent as the Pooles approached. Pearl held Gip’s hand, Kellogg hoisted Elsie-Anne onto his shoulders, her purse atop his head, her legs yoked his neck. They hurried past the quiet men with a rigidity Kellogg hoped conveyed purpose, rather than fear.
No problems here, he whispered, in his pocket lacing keys between his fingers.
The Pooles went west along Tangent 7, the rowhouses of A Street gave way to the squat shapes of warehouses and storage facilities between C and D, many of the windows punched out in spiky dark shapes. At F Street they headed north. Beyond the empty stockyards to the west shone the oily glint of the lake.
The only sounds were footsteps: Kellogg’s, with Pearl’s and Gip’s echoing half a block behind. The air was still and cold.
Pearl called, The Golden Barrel’s just ahead.
A motion sensor light flicked on as Kellogg passed what he mistook for another painted square, but a breeze wafted from it — an alley. He gripped his keys, ready should a drunk stumble out of the dark, to shred the man’s face with a razory punch.
Around the corner on Tangent 10 the Taverne’s blinking sign lit the sidewalk in orange flashes. Upon its roof was a movie-screen — sized billboard: the obelisk of the Island Flat Company’s logo and Food at the edge of forever scrawled beneath.
Suddenly Kellogg’s footsteps were without echo. He stopped, looked back: no Pearl, no Gip. The corner sat in darkness, they’d somehow not tripped the motion sensor.
Pearl? Kellogg called. Gip?
Nothing.
He lowered Elsie-Anne into his arms. Guys?
No reply.
Clutching his daughter he jogged back down F. The motion sensor triggered. Kellogg stopped. The light went off. He called his wife’s and son’s names again, with Elsie-Anne held close his heart thudded through both their bodies. He faced the alley: a murk too dark to be shadows, a void that existed beyond light.
Kellogg moved to the alley’s edge. He squinted. Nothing became clearer, nothing took form or shape. Pearl, Gip, he said, his voice weak. The blackness seemed wet. His pulse filled his ears, surged through his hands.
He hitched Elsie-Anne onto his hip and stepped forward. The shadows closed in. Another step, the ground sloped down. He pushed in a little farther and thought he saw movement. Then, faint and faraway, came a rushing, airy sound, and the breath of something huge whisked hot and cobwebby over his face.