Deeba almost sobbed with laughter.
“I want to go home!” she said. “That’s what we’ve been trying to do since we got here.”
“Alright then,” said the Unbrellissimo. “Let me tell you what to do.”
30. Taking Leave
The bridge certainly hadn’t been there when they came out of the factory. But Mortar and Lectern led them just one or two quick turns, and its familiar towers and cables rose before them, and they were back on its tarmac, heading for the office.
The loon was high overhead. It was a fatter oval than the previous night, was almost full.
The Propheseers were waiting, gathered around Zanna’s immobile body. Curdle scampered and rolled towards them.
“Come here, you stupid carton,” Deeba said, and stroked her friend’s head gently, listening to Zanna’s breath rattle. Then Deeba cried out with delight as she saw three familiar figures on the Pons Absconditus.
“Obaday! Conductor Jones! Skool!” she shouted, and ran to hug each of them in turn— even Skool, who leaned awkwardly and patted her back with enormous clumsy gloves.
“Deeba!” Obaday shouted.
“How are you, girl?” said Jones.
“You made it,” she said. “How did you get here? Are you all alright?”
“It was a bit hairy there for a while,” Jones said. “We laid up south of the river. Rosa had to do some extreme driving there…” Skool nodded and made a zigzag motion with his hand. “We got rid of another of the grossbottles, but a couple of airjackers boarded us. Used up all my current getting rid of them.”
“Then Skool took over,” Obaday said, and Skool struck a strongman pose.
Somewhere between Jones’s laconic descriptions, Obaday’s enthusiastic gabbling, and Skool’s hand motions, Deeba learnt that the bus had landed, and there’d been a fight: “It wasn’t much,” according to Jones, and “It was terrible!” according to Obaday. “Stink-junkies…smombies…some other horrible-looking things…”
“We held them off as long as we could,” Jones said. “When they got inside the bus, they snatched the captive— that toga’d swine— and left.”
“When they saw the Shwazzy wasn’t there,” Deeba said.
“Poor thing,” Obaday said, looking at Zanna. Skool stroked her head.
“She’ll be okay,” Deeba said quickly. “We know what we’re going to do.”
“I couldn’t believe it, seeing her like that,” Obaday said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Tell me about it,” the book said miserably, from Lectern’s arms.
“If she isn’t going to save UnLondon, then who is?” Obaday went on.
“Well,” said Lectern. “There may be another plan. Something rather extraordinary. A plan involving someone you will not have been expecting to see again.” She glanced at the book, and added quietly: “Just not a plan that’s written.” The book sighed.
“You remember what to do?” Brokkenbroll said. Deeba nodded.
The loon shone down. The Propheseers and a few binja were lined up to see Deeba off. She looked down at Zanna, slumped, eyes closed, in the wheelbarrow into which the Propheseers had gently placed her. It felt disrespectful, pushing her friend like that, but she had no choice.
“Soon,” the Unbrellissimo said. “I’ll get everything prepared. Six in the morning. Be ready, won’t you?” Deeba nodded again, and looked at the rest of her companions.
She’d been so desperate to go home for so long, and she was still, was frantic to see her family, but she was suddenly sad to say good-bye to these UnLondoners. By the look of their faces, they felt the same.
“You’re a tough one, Deeba Not-the-Shwazzy,” Conductor Jones said. “You…you have yourself a great life, you hear?”
“I might come back,” she said.
“I…doubt it,” Jones said slowly. He lowered himself, bringing his face to her level. “Not that easy. Believe me. I had to try for years.” He looked down for a moment. “It would be lovely if you did, believe me. You’ve impressed me. But…” He gave her a sad smile, shook his head, and gave her a sudden hug. “I’m afraid it’s good-bye.” Deeba could hardly hear him.
Skool squatted, patted Deeba clumsily, gave her a hug and a thumbs-up for good luck.
“It was an honor to take you both to the bus stop,” Obaday said. “Don’t forget me. And…remember me to the Shwazzy.”
“Or not,” warned Brokkenbroll. “You’ll have to be very careful what you say.”
“I know, I know,” Deeba said.
“Alright then,” said Obaday forlornly. “Well, you remember me then.”
“You.” It was the book. Its voice was sulky. “Fing. You’ve given me an idea.”
Lectern held the book up. Obaday leaned in, and the pinheaded designer and the redundant book of prophecies had a whispered conversation.
“As long as I can remember, I’ve been waiting for her,” the book said to Deeba. “The Shwazzy’s not to blame for my inadequacies. I always imagined how I’d be there, in the Shwazzy’s arms, giving her advice as she does what’s needed for UnLondon. I’ve been imagining that since a long time before you or she were born.
“I can hardly believe that’s not going to happen. I want to think of her carrying me around in some way. I’d like to ask you to give her something for me.”
“This is a bad idea,” Brokkenbroll said. “We have no idea what state the Shwazzy’s going to be in when she wakes…”
“Well, if it’s not appropriate,” the book snapped, “then you keep the gift, Deeba Resham. Agreed? For goodness’ sake, I want to make a gesture. For her. It’s not as if there’s much point sticking to my original use, is there?
“Open me,” it said to Lectern. “Somewhere near the beginning. A page of descriptions— they’re not inaccurate. No matter what else is.” Lectern did, and then she, Mortar, and Deeba all let out horrified shouts as Obaday leaned over and tore the page neatly out.
“What are you doing?” Lectern shouted. “Are you mad…?”
“Calm down,” said the book. “I told him to. My main job was foretelling, and it turns out that I’d be more useful as a recipe book. At least that way you’d get a decent lunch out of me. So this way these two can get a real remembrance of us.”
Obaday was working on the sheet with his quick fingers. He whipped scissors from his pocket and cut shapes from it. He plucked pins from his head, attached bits together, pulled a white-threaded needle from his scalp, and began to sew at incredible speed.
In less than two minutes he was done.
“Here,” he said to Deeba. “Hold out your hand.” He pulled onto it the single glove he had made her.
Deeba flexed her fingers. The ancient paper was so soft it did not crinkle, but folded like felt. The glove was covered in words, snips of sentences and the ends of paragraphs, in ancient-looking print that was hard to read.
“Something to keep us in mind,” the book said.
“It’s gorgeous,” Deeba said. “I…She’ll love it.”
“If she sees it,” Brokkenbroll said, looking uncomfortable. “Which is probably not appropriate.”
Mortar and Lectern were staring at the glove as if they were about to have heart attacks.
“Oh, leave it, you two,” the book said. “My pages. I can do what I want.”
“Now don’t worry,” said Unstible. “We’ll keep UnLondon safe.”
“And help your friend,” said the Unbrellissimo.
Curdle came rolling out of the shadows and leapt up into Deeba’s arms. The little carton nuzzled up to her.
“Sorry Curdle,” she whispered. “But I can’t take you.” The carton whined. “You wouldn’t like it. You’d get thrown out, by mistake. End up in a dump. Or burnt.”
Curdle forlornly shook its opening.
“No,” said Deeba. “You have to stay.” She looked around for the most responsible-seeming person on the bridge. “Lectern…thank you for everything. And…would you look after it?”