Tragedy! Havoc! Snitches!
In shame and dismay Debbie laid her forehead on the steering wheel, playing the previous two weeks over in her mind: the two men’s sudden materialization, no one had ever heard of them before, their all-round shiftiness, such a performance of rage and militancy — and so it was. But what of Pop, his restribution planifications of the night before alongside these two infiltrators? Debbie had abandoned him. She felt sick.
A Citywagon’s window exploded in the Depot. An alarm wailed and blared, the car’s trunk flapped open, the shadows shivered with movement.
Up in the second-floor window of the IFC, Havoc — or whoever he was — cocked an ear like a tracker. Another window smashed, another trunk opened, another alarm joined the first. The other man stood, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, moved to the window, cupped his hands to the glass — and Debbie slid down in her seat, out of view.
From the Depot: the puff and tinkle of another window knocked in, a trunk opening. The night air throbbed with honks and sirens. Debbie peeked out: the shadows seemed to fracture and shift. Meanwhile, the snitches had disappeared from the IFC’s upper window. What purpose did they serve the NFLM — undercover operatives, provocateurs? They’d comprised a third of the entire Movement, nearly doubled its size! Spies? Even the idea seemed absurd.
At the restaurant’s front doors the Helpers were accosted by the hostess and held up while the one who called himself Tragedy went digging through his windbreaker. Havoc moved to the window, gazed out, Debbie ducked.
A voice cried, Calum’s not in this one either! In the sideview mirror Debbie watched the Helpers leave the restaurant and creep across the Temple’s front yard, the shorter man, scuttling buglike alongside his gangly companion, produced a walkie-talkie: Pea and Dack here, he shouted. It’s them!
At this the Hand rose out of the shadows, illuminated by a streetlight, with the vexed alert posture of a startled animal.
What happened next Debbie could only process in fragments: a surge of adrenaline — the engine roared — Havoc and Tragedy frozen in her headlights — the car swerved — two men diving out of its path — the Hand and the twins piling into the backseat — Havoc and Tragedy getting to their feet in the rearview — a screech of tires — kids’ voices: Where are we going? Where are you taking us? — and maybe Debbie said something, maybe she didn’t. Then she was swerving north onto F, over Lowell Canal, leaving behind the lighted streets of LOT, swallowed into the sheer slick darkness of the Zone.
VIII
Y THAT EVENING the fog had thinned to dewy gossamer. Through it cars and vans and trucks stalled all day down through the belly of People Park were directed along the PPT and east on Topside Drive into the IFC Stadium parking lot. Marching alongside the slow-moving traffic the NFLM provided encouragement: Family-friendly entertainment! — Free rides for all! — Better than sitting doing nothing! — Come on you appleheads, let’s have some fun.
With Harry bunkered away at their campsite, the Pooles walked west along Topside Drive, and as they passed the Stadium Kellogg said, There it is, and Pearl said, Yup. Helpers directed them toward the entrance to Island Amusements, over which coloured bulbs twinkled in kinetic patterns, back and forth. High above brooded the Thunder Wheel, a huge blank clockface stripped of the time.
Why are we here? said Gip.
This is where all the kids are going, said Kellogg. Free rides! See, there’s Mummy’s puking one.
Why though, Dad? I can’t help from here. Raven’s gone and I’m the one —
I bet they have flats at the concessions too, guys! What do you say, Annie?
Familiar has to pee.
Familiar or you, Annie?
Same thing. He’s living inside me now.
Kellogg knelt in front of his daughter. Enough of that, eh? It’s getting a little weird.
While Cinecity hosted entertainment for the island’s eighteen-and-overs, Island Amusements’ free entry was attracting families by the hundreds: with the arrival of each Redline train more parents and their children poured down from Amusements Station, the lot reached capacity, to avoid double-parking along Topside Drive the NFLM allowed traffic onto the pasture reserved normally for vendors.
Helpers wielding plastic orange batons directed drivers into a grid. One Helper, face as luminescent as his sticks, screamed, Free today, kids, rides’re free! and in a panicked semaphore ushered the Pooles through the turnstiles onto the midway. Here the night seemed to open up and come alive. Everything glowed and sang and burbled and flashed, the air redolent with caramel and deepfry, beneath which festered the porcine stink of the portable toilets upwind by the treeline.
In a tight, tense voice Kellogg said, Everyone stay close, and took Gip’s hand and, prying it from her purse, Elsie-Anne’s. Pearl drifted alongside, gazing around with astonishment. Everywhere was something: games of chance, the yelps of vendors and hawkers, the booming evil laughter of Broken Hill Haunted House, the Atomic Canyon and Holy Road and Kicking Horse (Love the Horse or leave the Horse, threatened a Helper) rollercoasters whipped and roared and looped to the delighted terrified screams of their riders, over Rocket Falls’ Get shot thru tubes! sign had been posted an apology: SORRY, NOT TIL SUMMER — MGMT.
Daunting queues threaded from every ride, but the two most impressive led to the washrooms and concession stands. These dipped and twisted so circuitously that newcomers assumed positions beside those at the front. You waiting for food or the toilet, a woman asked Kellogg, and he grinned and told her, Neither yet! The woman frowned and was bumped by a man reeling past balancing a tray of ciders and greasy island flats.
Annie wants the bathroom, said Kellogg. Pearl?
She was staring at the Thunder Wheel, its apex lost in the low-hanging clouds.
Pearl? You want to take Annie, or —
No, she said, Gip and I will ride the wheel.
Gip cowered behind his father. The boy’s face was still faintly crimson where she’d smacked him. Pearl reached for him, stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers.
Great idea, said Kellogg. A chance for you two to, you know. . Gip? Go on, take Mummy’s hand.
The hand that hit me?
Shhh, now, said Kellogg, and nudged him at his mother.
He joined her grudgingly, watching as Kellogg and Elsie-Anne were folded into the crowds, their spot assumed by a teenage couple lugging unwieldy inflatables won at games of chance.
Come on, said Pearl, eyes on the Thunder Wheel, and dragged her son across the midway.
A bored Helper told them, Ride now, you’ll get it solo.
Pearl looked up: every Thundercloud was empty.
No view, explained the operator, clouds’re too low. Still fun to go up though. . I guess.
Pearl said, Remind me how long the ride is?
Six minutes, fifteen seconds.
Exactly?
Usually each Thundercloud gets less than thirty seconds at the top. But since you guys’ll be alone, I’ll give you five minutes. Quite a while to be up there, eh, kid?
Gip, what do you think, want to ride it with Mummy?
But —
It’ll only take a few minutes. Maybe from way up there you’ll be able to find Raven?
Gip gave her a skeptical look.
Okay, said Pearl, we’ll go.
Congratulations, said the Helper, helped Pearl and Gip board a Thundercloud, buckled them in, and closed the gate behind them.
AT THE BOTTOM of the Slipway Starx and Olpert Bailie sat in the Citywagon facing Crocker Pond. Or the misty enclosure over it. Despite thinning at streetlevel down here in the park the fog had the opaque gloss of a gessoed canvas. This is good, whispered Starx, just how Griggs said. He led Olpert to the car’s rear and opened the trunk: there was the boy, his hood pushed back, gaping at them with one glassy eye.