Amid all that joy Calum imagined the pink man saying something like, Young man, you’re not joining us? You aren’t excited for the big show tonight? And when Calum said nothing the pink man would say, Here’s a young man who’s not excited for the big show tonight, and at this the whole car would boo — and Calum would sweep off the hood, show them his ruined face, his monster’s face, and smash the pink man’s head through the window.
A fantasy. Instead the chanting eased as the train slowed into Budai Beach Station, and Calum hid inside his hood.
There was no more room, the stranded commuters swept past on the movator, faces dumbfounded, while the train slunk through the station. Next train, see you at the park, cried the pink man, and everyone laughed. At this a scream rose up in Calum — he swatted the pink man’s hand from the handrail. An air leak of a voice said, Hey, and another said, Come on, kid, you can’t just hit people. Meanwhile the pink man was puffing himself up, trembling. Animals, he muttered, animals. .
Animals? Calum laughed a little gunfire laugh.
But no one joined in. He felt an entire traincar’s worth of eyes turning on him, everyone on the pink man’s side, who was saying, They’re just animals — and did this elicit a murmur of agreement? Many faces glared at him. Calum laughed again, a lonesome yelp into the crowd. White stuff foamed at the corners of the pink man’s lips. You animal, he growled, emboldened, you’re just a animal, you’re all animals, and Calum laughed again, but the laugh sounded forced and desperate, and his face was burning, and voices were saying, Get this kid off the train.
Hands fell upon him, he was guided to the exit doors, where a final shove sent him staggering onto the platform. He backed away staring at the people on the train, who stared back: all those eyes loathing his sad two own. The doors chimed, thumped closed, and the train sped out of the station. Across the tracks upon the westbound platform a few dozen commuters observed Calum with mild curiosity. He felt on a stage, humiliated.
And so he ran. Down the steps, into Mount Mustela, east along Paths that curled between houses and duplexes, along Crescents onto Trails and Ways, finally released into the open, lamplit swath of Mustela Boulevard. Here he headed north, passing the fur shops and Bookland, his sneakers slapped and echoed, his lungs burned, he couldn’t stop. Through the Necropolis, he skirted the edge of the dump, climbed the pedestrian walkway over Lowell Overpass, took the stairs back down alongside the canal, which he followed in the growing dark, and at last emerged onto Topside Drive. Up ahead, in a golden ribbon, twinkled the lights of Guardian Bridge.
VIII
ROM THE SPOT he’d procured, front row, dead centre, Kellogg gloated as more and more people arrived to increasingly poor views of the stage. Spectators swelled up the hills to the north, east, and south, and beyond, onto the streets that circled People Park. Despite a handmade NO SPECTATION sign the parking lot of Street’s Milk & Things hosted a tailgate party: in the houseboat’s former site men dug ciders from a cooler and young mums suckled babies at their breasts. Latecomers packed the western hillock out back of the gazebo — though they’d see nothing, not even the videoscreens, at least they could claim having been there.
Look at these poor saps, proclaimed Kellogg, gesturing around the common. Not like us earlybirds, we got the worm! And by worm I mean the best seats in the house. He gave a thumbs-up to Pearl who sat with Elsie-Anne on their little blanketed claim, and landed a triumphant smirk on some lesser father a few rows back.
Gip took his father’s hand. I know, Dad. Thanks.
The wild, panicked fervour that had the boy careening around the park all day had tightened into tenser, almost pensive anticipation. He seemed subdued, or at least focused, leaning there on the guardrail, eyes on the trunk from which Raven would appear at nine.
The sun went down, the crowd pressed in, Pearl and Elsie-Anne joined Kellogg and Gip at the barricades. Gazeboside Helpers flitted around, walkie-talkies crackling: Keep your positions and maintain order — B-Squad ready? — Silentium, Logica, Securitatem, Prudentia — Absolutely retain order. . The messages sputtered, all those bodies on the common disrupted the frequencies.
So, Gip, said Kellogg, any guesses what Raven’s going to do? — a question he’d asked since noon to no avail. Might there be clues in your book? Want Mummy to get it out of your bag?
It wouldn’t be in the Grammar, Dad, said Gip. As if!
No insights? Being his biggest fan and all?
Can’t you just wait? You’re so impatient. Gosh!
There’s something to be said for surprises, said Pearl, handing Gip the day’s final round of meds and a box of apple juice. No grape? he said, and Pearl said, They don’t have grape here, only this. He washed down the pills, Pearl stashed the container in Gip’s knapsack and dropped it at her feet. This is fun, she said. What a view! Thanks, Kellogg.
But Kellogg was distracted. At the back of the gazebo lurked one of the men in khaki, apart from the rest. Someone’s cameralight, scanning the stage, shone upon him momentarily: a skittish character with a facial abrasion — the man from earlier, the one who’d nearly crushed Elsie-Annie with an armful of lumber. Kellogg waved, the Helper saw him and shrunk into the shadows. Who’s that? said Pearl. He’s. . Kellogg began, but wasn’t sure what to say.
WHILE A YELLOWLINE train swept from City Centre into Parkside West Station, at the head of the southbound platform a lone traveller sat motionless with a duffelbag between his feet. Dressed in black from head to toe, face concealed in a balaclava, this person watched impassively as the train slowed and unleashed a pack of Jubilee merrymakers and then slid off, evacuated and empty, toward Bridge Station.
Once the crowd had cleared, two figures — one tall and thin, the other stocky and manic, both in leather — approached the seated man. After an exchange of shifty nods, some furtive looks up and down the platform, and a few minutes of contrived estrangement, amid a clatter and screech and a funnelcloud of trash swirling up from the tracks, the PA announced a Whitehall train, the movator started up, and the men assembled to board.
In the first car the trio took seats adjacent to but not exactly beside one another. Hissing, the train eased alongside the empty platform. Through its open doors came the noise from People Park, an oceanic murmur, lunar and tidal and ancient. Then the doors played their song and closed and the PA said, Next stop, City Centre. City Centre Station, next stop, and they were heading off south into the evening.
In a low voice Pop said, Thank you for adjoining me.
Tragedy shook his fist. Fuggin justice, man.
Will be θerved, added Havoc, spat, and smeared the jiggling wad into a wetspot with a generic black sneaker.
BEHIND THE GAZEBO, at the edge of Crocker Pond, B-Squad stood guard outside the boathouse. A light glowed inside this ersatz greenroom: prior to each show the illustrationist required an hour, alone, to prepare himself with visualizations.
So, said Starx, I’ve been meaning to tell you — that dream you said you have?
Olpert was confused.
That dream you told him. . Starx nodded at the boathouse.
Oh.
I have it too. Exactly the same. It was like you were telling him stuff from my own brain, Bailie. Superweird.
Well, said Olpert, that wasn’t really my dream. I think he. . put it there.
Whatever, right? I hate this shet about how dreams are supposed to reveal secrets. If you lie to yourself when you’re awake, who’s to say you don’t lie to yourself in your dreams? So your dream, my dream, who cares. It’s all made-up anyway, probably. Me, the only thing I like about dreams is they put me to sleep.