When evening fell, with a huge grinding, the UnLondon-I spun once more. With focus and effort, Mortar and the Suggesters directed the bridge.
Deeba hugged every one of her friends good-bye.
“Oh,” she said to Hemi. She fumbled in her pocket.
“Tell me you ain’t reaching for that money,” he said. She grinned.
“It’s no good to me,” she said, and held it out. “You might as well…” He took her hand gently, and closed her fingers back over it.
“This way you still owe me,” he muttered. “So this way you got to come back, to pay up.”
Deeba swallowed and nodded and hugged him again. She held her breath, and turned and ran to the edge of the bridge. There was a strain, an effort, a whining in the air, and Deeba felt a membrane split, somewhere in reality. The bridge dipped across the Odd. She ran towards the walkway by her front door, which she could see beyond the girders.
I dunno what might happen, she thought, giddy, head spinning. I could go back. I could live there, in a moil house with walls made out of wallets and windows made out of glasses. Or in a house like a goldfish bowl. I could catch a train from Manifest Station.
But right now…
She stepped off the bridge, and breathed deeply in the London night. She looked all around her. Curdle exhaled at her feet. Deeba smiled.
“Hush,” she told it. “And you.” She held up the rebrella. “Remember. Over on this side, when other people’re around, you stay still.”
She turned. The bridge still soared out across the estate. Standing near its edge, waving at her, were her friends. Joe Jones; Skool; Hemi the half-ghost, biting his lip; Bling and Cauldron, their bodies quite solid; and Obaday Fing, carrying the book.
Deeba blinked through tears and smiled. She raised her hand. The UnLondoners waved back. She and they looked across at each other, from city to abcity.
A cat yowled somewhere. Deeba glanced in its direction.
When she looked back, the Pons Absconditus was gone. Deeba stood alone on the concrete walkway, in the dark. In London.
Deeba gave a long, shaky sigh. She picked up Curdle, put it in her bag. She whispered to the rebrella: “Remember!”
Then she turned and unlocked her front door.
99. Memory
Deeba walked slowly through the living room. She was trembling. She heard voices from the kitchen.
She paused a moment, and looked at a photo on the mantel.
It was of her whole family. Deeba stared at it in horror. There was her mother, her father, her brother, smiling out…and there was she, but it was as if the film was underexposed in that corner of the picture. Or as if she stood in shadow. Or in fact, as if it was just hard to notice her there, smiling, her arms around her parents.
The picture was of four people, but it looked as if it was of three.
Her family were at the table eating supper. Deeba almost sobbed to see only three places set.
She walked in, looked at her parents and Hass, and brimmed with tears of relief, and nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to just run across the room to them, but she held back in fear, seeing their faces.
All three of them were staring at her blankly.
Her father had a fork halfway to his mouth. Food was dripping slowly off the metal tines. Her mother held a glass. Their faces were almost like voids. They looked slack, completely uncomprehending. Deeba saw a struggle deep inside each of them.
I was gone too long! she thought desperately. The phlegm effect’s gone permanent!
“Mum?” she whispered. “Dad? Hass?” They stared.
It’s only been eight days! she thought. Since I spoke to Dad, in the Talklands! But… A coldness hit her stomach. But it’s been more than nine since I left. Maybe it doesn’t do it, to phone. The time counts from when you’re gone. It’s too late…
“Mum? Dad? Hass?”
The Reshams quivered, and very slowly winced and blinked, and stared at Deeba, and something seemed to shudder and run through the room. One by one her family shivered as if at a chill, and they stretched their faces as if yawning, or shrugging something off.
“Can’t you sit down like a civilized person?” Mr. Resham said. It took several seconds before Deeba was sure he was speaking to her.
“What are you wearing?” Mrs. Resham said. “You funny girl.”
Deeba let out a little sob of relief and grabbed them both, and hugged them harder than she ever had before.
“Mad girl!” her father said. “You’re spilling my rice!” He laughed.
Deeba hugged Hass, too. He looked at her suspiciously.
“What?” he said. “I drew a picture.”
It took Deeba a few moments to convince her mum and dad that though, yes, she was crying, she was very happy.
“I’m just going over to Zanna’s for a minute,” Deeba said as the Reshams picked at the last of their dinner. Deeba did so too, her father having wordlessly got her a plate and cutlery, a faint quizzical look on his face when she sat down.
“You…” her mother said. “You think I can’t see through this shameless attempt to get out of clearing up dishes?”
“Oh, please. Just for a second. I need to…give her something for school.”
Deeba grew more and more nervous the whole short distance to Zanna’s. She had to clench and unclench her hand to stop it shaking before she rang the doorbell.
It was Zanna herself who opened the door. Deeba stared at her, dumb, her mouth open. It felt like years since she had seen that familiar blond-fringed face.
For an instant, a cloud of confusion passed over Zanna’s expression. Then she smiled and stood up straighter, looking fresher and better than anytime since she had returned from her own, unremembered, trip to the abcity.
“Hey Deebs,” she said. There was no trace of debilitating breathlessness left in her voice— her lungs sounded completely clear. “Man,” she said, “you look happy. So…you been doing anything interesting? What? What’s so funny? Why you laughing?”
Much later, when Deeba crept out of bed and looked at the photograph of her family again, while everyone else was asleep and she was basking in having her house around her, the light in the picture had altered. Deeba’s image was properly visible, and there were four Reshams again.
It was beyond extraordinary that she had only a few hours previously been in UnLondon, a place so far away from her bedroom that conventional measures of distance were meaningless. She thought, carefully and precisely, of all her friends in turn: Obaday, Jones, the book, the utterlings, Hemi the half-ghost.
She missed it already, she realized. It’ll always be me got rid of the Smog, she thought. She felt the lack of UnLondon like a loss.
But at the same time, she couldn’t remember being so happy as she was then, at that moment, luxuriating under her duvet, in her room, with her family close, and her image back and visible on the photos in the living room. She felt as if she glowed with contentment.
Deeba whispered to Curdle, which was making a nest under her bed. Before she turned out her light, Deeba checked her diary. She had an appointment coming up.
EPILOGUE
In the heart of Westminster, in the sumptuous, wood-paneled office of Elizabeth Rawley, secretary of state for Environment, it was an unexceptional morning. The minister worked through the pile of papers on her desk, checking reports, making notes and suggestions, preparing press releases.
There was a personal note from the prime minister. He was extremely pleased with the success of LURCH, the London-UnLondon Rerouting Carbon Hazards plan. Carcinogens and toxic pollution were down across the southeast, the ratings from environmentalists were up, and the government had established an invaluable relationship with a very powerful ally.